


A Virtue Best Forgotten

by ConstantDaydreams



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1700s, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Background Relationships, Betrayal, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, First Time, Forbidden Love, Historical, Love Letters, M/M, Mentions of War, Mila Babicheva/Sara Crispino - Freeform, Royalty, Secret Relationship, Slow Build, Victor Nikiforov/Yuuri Katsuki - Freeform, Yuri is 16 during sexual scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:36:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 116,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantDaydreams/pseuds/ConstantDaydreams
Summary: In 1742, seven year old orphan Victor Nikiforov is adopted by the childless Empress of Russia and her husband, and brought to live in the palace at St Petersburg as heir to the throne. Ten years later, Yuri Plisetsky becomes his adopted brother.Their relationship is characterised by jealousy on Yuri's part and relentless attempts at friendship on Victor's, their one unifying pleasure being their mutual love of ice skating. However when Victor falls in love and shirks his responsibilities, they fall on Yuri's shoulders, leaving him with an arranged marriage he does not want and more hatred towards his brother than he's ever felt before.The only thing stopping Yuri from descending into depression is his reintroduction to an old friend, Otabek Altin, the one man Yuri wants desperately but is forbidden from having.





	1. The Russian Princes

Russian winters were deadly. Everybody who had ever visited the country during its harshest season all agreed that to endure it was a feat of courage, as the wind whipped snow about so violently it felt like blades on your skin and the thinly-frozen lakes were a source of danger for anyone who put a foot wrong while walking. However, to those who had lived there their entire lives, winters were par for the course. Peasants had a harder time than the rich, undoubtedly, but even they knew how to build up fires large enough and wear clothes thick enough to keep out the chill. And for the royals, winters passed from the safe vantage point of palace windows, from in front of ornate marble fireplaces blasting hot air into large, decadently furnished rooms. 

Yuri Plisetsky loved winter. He had the rare advantage, along with his brother Victor, of having experienced it from both sides of the population. In his early years, following the tragic death of his grandfather in a factory accident, he’d grown up in a workhouse in the industrial heart of Moscow where the concrete floor was colder on his bare feet than if he’d been standing outside on the ice itself. During those years he’d dressed in rags torn from other children’s clothes and barely eaten enough to keep him standing upright. During those years he’d spent his winters crawling underneath fast-moving machinery to retrieve pieces of cotton and sticking his fingers so close to the small fire in the dormitory that they almost got burnt, chilblains appearing regularly on his hands and feet. Winters then were bitter and cruel, and Yuri had dreaded them the same way he dreaded walking into the workhouse every day. 

His saving grace had come in the form of the Empress of Russia and her husband. Yakov and Lilia were sharp, angular, imposing figures who seemed to rule on the basis that people trusted them to take care of the country, as opposed to liking who they were personally. They made very few tours around their own country, preferring instead to stay in their palace at St Petersburg or venture out to conduct international diplomatic business. Much of their time was consumed with forming strong links to other countries, particularly those who had militaries that either matched or rivalled Russia. But despite the apparent ease with which they worked together, their marriage had always been a turbulent one, devoid of any real love or emotion. Following their wedding at the ripe age of twenty, the pair had slept in separate bed chambers and taken dinner and breakfast at different times every day to avoid each other, and rumours circulated that the marriage hadn’t even been consummated, years after it had taken place. The rumours were laid to rest when Lilia fell pregnant well into her forties, however due to her ageing body, the baby did not survive and she miscarried just months later. After that occasion it became apparent that the royal family was to be left without a single heir if Yakov and Lilia were unable to produce one now they were old, and so they had resolved to find their heir another way – through adoption. 

Victor Nikiforov had been the first, in 1742. They’d found him when he was seven years old, an orphan working out in the countryside tending sheep on a farm owned by an elderly couple. It was on one of their rare tours around the country that they came across the farm, and they were instantly struck by him. Yakov and Lilia didn’t care much for the financial status of the children they adopted, but something they did care greatly for was their beauty. And there was no denying that Victor was a beautiful child. He was angelic, with bright blue eyes and pale, flawless skin, and hair so white it was like a halo around his delicately-boned face. They’d taken a liking to him immediately, the adoption process made all the faster by the eagerness of the elderly farming couple to rid themselves of another mouth to feed. And just like that, the royal family had secured themselves an heir. What nobody could have predicted, however, was how much Yakov would come to dote on his new son. He immediately had Victor fitted for new clothes made of the finest cloths available, gave him the largest bedroom in the palace besides the master bedroom, told the chefs his favourite foods and instructed them to make them whenever Victor requested them. When Victor expressed sadness at no longer being surrounded by sheepdogs like on the farm, Yakov bought him an expensive pedigree dog, a poodle, and allowed Victor to name him and train him himself. He brought in private tutors for him, nurtured any hobbies Victor showed an interest in, and spent more time with him than any royal, especially a man, would have been expected to spend with their child. Countless nannies and nurses were turned away on Yakov’s insistence that he would raise his son himself.

It wasn’t until ten years later, when Yuri was five years old, that Lilia decided she wanted her own child to toy with. Victor was seventeen by then, and Yakov’s devotion to him had only increased over time, once Victor was able to hold intelligent conversation and learn more advanced hobbies such as riding and hunting. Victor liked Lilia well enough, respected her as his mother and often entertained her by reading in one of the various languages he’d been taught by his tutors, but they were never as close as he was to Yakov and it had long been irritating Lilia to be so alienated. And so she and Yakov had embarked upon another journey around the country, under the guise this time of inspecting the state of the nation’s poorhouses. It was then that they’d come across Yuri, although they had so nearly missed him. 

They’d arrived at his workhouse very early on one morning in 1752. It was at this time and at the very end of the day that the work was the most dangerous, as the children were plagued with fatigue from their lack of sleep and made to start their duties as soon as they were pulled from their beds. When Yakov and Lilia were touring the factory floor, a harsh scream from across the room had pulled everyone’s attention away from the royals and towards the source of the sound. A young girl who couldn’t have been older than four had managed to get her hair caught in one of the machines, a mistake that could have proven fatal if Yuri hadn’t moved as quick as he had. He’d scrambled out from beneath his own machine so fast his arm got cut, grabbed a knife from the tool rack on the wall and sliced the girl’s hair so fast that she stumbled back and fell down on her backside, stunned and shaken but still safe from harm. There had been a brief period of silence where everyone processed the narrow escape from what could have been a bloody, gory end to a very young child, before Lilia’s eyes had zeroed in on Yuri and it became clear she had to have him. Yuri was as pretty as Victor had been, with his green eyes that matched the emeralds on Lilia’s necklace almost exactly and dirty blonde hair that was matted to his forehead with sweat. He didn’t have the same fresh, countryside appearance as Victor had had – Yuri’s face was smudged with soot and his arm was bleeding where the machine had caught it, but none of that deterred Lilia. Yuri was adopted the very same day, sitting in the office of the workhouse master while his arm was bandaged and he was given the biggest bowl of bread and soup he’d ever had in his life.

They hadn’t been able to predict his short temper and unsociable attitude when they’d found him, half starved and dying in a workhouse orphanage. It was only once they’d brought him back to the palace and clothed him and fed him that he began to show his apparent disdain for everyone and everything around him. As a child this manifested itself as a series of tantrums that could sometimes last for days, but could usually be fixed with a gift of sweets or toys, as children were easily pleased. When he got a little older, the tantrums stopped and Yuri instead took to snapping and lashing out at anyone who annoyed him, which was most commonly Victor. Fortunately, his older brother seemed impervious to any insults Yuri hurled at him, taking them in his stride and never retaliating out of understanding that Yuri was younger than him, and had a significantly different upbringing in his early life. Nobody knew quite what had happened to Victor’s parents – he was left in a basket on the doorstep of the farmhouse when he was a baby, so there was no love lost between him and his original family. Yuri, meanwhile, still held the bitter memory of his father’s alcoholism and his mother’s unsavoury profession and his grandfather’s accident, and so Victor knew that anything said in spite was likely borne from those memories. 

The relationship between them as brothers was complicated, especially at first. Victor had a perpetually sunny disposition in everything he did, his smile bright and dazzling for everyone regardless of the kind of day he was having. When Yuri had first been brought to the palace Victor had buzzed around him like a fly, almost more childlike at seventeen than Yuri was at five. He’d shown him how to use the toys Lilia bought him, as well as gifting him a significant number of his old toys too, and he’d helped to persuade Lilia to buy Yuri a cat just like Victor had been allowed a dog, after Yuri showed an interest in the mousing cats down in the kitchens. Yuri was given a beautiful Himalayan just a week later, presented to him as a kitten with an emerald green bow around its neck. Yuri had named her Kira, and Victor had made it his mission from that day forward to ensure the cat and Makkachin could live together in harmony in the palace. 

However, by far the best thing Victor ever did for Yuri was introducing him to his favourite hobby, ice skating. Victor had taken it up as soon as he’d been brought to the palace at age seven, and since then he’d become really rather good, jumping and spinning freely every winter. Yuri still remembered the day Victor took him to get his first pair of ice skates. It was one of the very first times they’d been allowed out of the palace together without the supervision of their parents, although they were of course sent out into the city with guards in case anything happened to them. They weren’t afforded the luxury of anonymity as some royals in other countries were – no, everyone had heard stories of the adopted Russian princes and their bright, jewel-coloured eyes. They were stared at as they made their way first to the cobbler to have Yuri’s feet fitted for the leather skating boots, and then to the blacksmith to have him fashion razor-thin blades to fix to the bottom of the boots when they were ready. The whole process was incredibly exciting, and Yuri spent the following weeks watching out of his bedroom window to wait for the blacksmith’s cart to wheel into the courtyard with his skates.

Ever since that day, the ice had become a unifying ground for Victor and Yuri. Their bond was never stronger than when they were skating around each other in elegant loops and long glides, Victor showing Yuri something new and Yuri doing his best to copy it until he occasionally became better at it than Victor himself. Yakov and Lilia sometimes tried to tempt them inside with other hobbies – piano playing, singing, painting – but nothing ever changed. Every autumn, when the very last of the leaves had fallen off the trees, Victor and Yuri would always be found sprinting out to the lake each day to tap the ice and see if it was thick enough yet for them to skate on. And when they finally decided it was, they were out with their skates before anyone could stop them, and that was where they would remain for the entire winter season. Yuri stopped associating the cold with chilblains and sickness and fever, and instead started associating it with fun and enjoyment, and a new challenge every year to prove himself more skilled than his older brother. 

That year of 1761, just days before Victor’s birthday, their routine was no different. Yuri was woken by Victor’s excitable knocking on his door, and when he opened it, his skates were already in hand. The pair of them, along with their cousin the Countess Mila Babicheva – whom Yuri tolerated because her feisty attitude matched his nicely – all raced to the lake and began their slow circles, re-familiarising themselves with the ice. For a while they remained silent, just the quiet scrape of blades to be heard in the still, frozen air, until Mila suddenly stopped and announced, “You’ll never guess what I overheard Uncle saying today.” Of course, that was enough to get both Yuri and Victor to stop too, hands on their hips as they stared at her expectantly. 

“Well?” demanded Yuri, stooping to re-tie one of the laces that had come loose on his boot. “Are you going to tell us or did you just say it to be irritating?” He suspected the latter, but he decided to give her a chance. Yakov was a very plain-spoken, no-nonsense sort of man. He didn’t have secrets and if he did, it was for the benefit of national security, not because he was trying to hide something from his own family. So the idea that Mila had simply overheard something shocking from him was an interesting one. 

Mila hummed, turning and skating in a lazy, slow circle in a way that suggested she knew she had them on a hook and was willing to draw it out for dramatic effect as long as she felt like it. “Oh, I don’t know if I should tell you,” she hummed, a smile curling her lips up at the corner. Stupid woman. To some men, the expression would have been considered attractive, her thick eyelashes fluttering over violet eyes and her pink lips smirking prettily. But unfortunately for her, setting aside the very obvious pitfall of Victor and Yuri being her cousins, the pair of them both preferred the company of men and were completely impervious to women’s attempts at flirting. “I think Uncle was hoping for it to be a surprise…” 

Victor, ever the innocent, clasped his leather-gloved hands together in front of his chest and adopted a pleading expression. “Please, Mila,” he whined. Victor suffered from boredom on a far more severe level than Yuri; while the younger of the brothers was perfectly happy to sit in his room and read of an afternoon, Victor was like a puppy, constantly itching for something new and exciting to do. “Is he planning something? What did you hear?” 

As almost everyone was, Mila seemed unable to resist Victor’s earnest begging. She rolled her eyes lightly and gestured for them to skate with her to the edge of the lake, where there was a stone loveseat that they’d brushed the snow away from to set down their things. It was there that she sat now, the wide bustle of her skirt and layers of petticoats protecting her from the cold. After she’d drawn out the suspense for as long as she could, arranging those skirts neatly and smoothing them down with the palms of her velvet gloves, she leaned forward to her cousins, who were both now crouched on the snowy bank in front of her. Yuri detested that he found himself so interested in what she had to say, as he would have liked to remain stoic in the face of her teasing but found himself unable to resist the promise of gossip. “It’s your birthday present,” Mila stage-whispered, addressing Victor. 

It had the desired effect. Blue eyes became wide and Victor’s mouth stretched into a bright, excited smile. Yakov never spared any expense when it came to Victor’s birthday gifts, and they always suited his decadent tastes perfectly. For his eighteenth birthday Yakov had commissioned the royal jeweller to fashion a crown for Victor to be placed in the official throne room of the palace, with sapphire stones and blue topaz that matched his eyes perfectly, and served as both a reminder and a promise that Victor would one day take the throne from his mother and rule as Tsar. Other birthday gifts in later years had included a beautiful purebred horse for riding, snow white in colour with a perfectly smooth mane, or a pocket watch fashioned from ornate filigree gold and set with diamonds beneath the roman numerals on its face. “What is it?” Victor asked now, speaking softly as though he were telling a great secret. His breath clouded the air in front of his mouth like smoke. 

Mila’s smile, impossibly, turned more coy than before. She snickered and turned her face away, holding a hand to her nose to try and stop herself laughing. It was then that Yuri knew it must have been not just a good gift, but one of the best Yakov had ever thought up, something entirely different than anything he’d given Victor before. Mila was eighteen years old, she had been around the palace longer than Yuri and she had seen more of Victor’s gifts than he had, too. So she knew the general pattern of what they were like, and now she knew that this particular present was something special. “It’s not an ‘it’,” she said eventually, re-positioning her shoulders to improve her posture and taking a deep breath for effect. “It’s a ‘who’.”

It was nowhere near enough information, but it was just enough to set Victor on a scatter-brained train of thought. “A ‘who’?” he mused, looking down at the snowy ground and absently poking little holes in the frozen bank upon which he was perched. “Who would he bring for me?” It was a sad truth that Victor had very few friends – neither he nor Yuri did, really. They lived a very sheltered life for the purpose of their safety, and with the world gripped by war, it was unsafe to travel far to greet or make friends from foreign nations. 

Mila looked as though she were about to burst with the intensity of the gossip she was about to spill. Eventually, after staring at Victor’s confused expression for a good long while, she blurted, “Katsuki Yuuri!” The name hung in the cold air followed by nothing but silence, the exclamation not met with the excitement she had obviously been expecting. Deciding she would have to elaborate, she sighed and said, “He’s an ice dancer, Victor! He’s from Japan, apparently he’s the very best ice dancer in the whole country, he performs for the Shogun all the time. People say he’s so beautiful that he can entrance men and women not to look away from him for an entire performance – there are rumours you can’t even blink when you’re watching him. Apparently Uncle commissioned him to create a brand new routine for your birthday, and he’ll be coming here to perform it for you.” 

Victor was delighted. If there was one non-material thing that he could say he valued more than his usual presents and clothes and possessions, it was skating. He constantly begged Yakov and Lilia to bring ice dancers to the palace so they could see them perform, but it was one area where he was often denied, owing to the safety issues of allowing strangers into the grounds on a regular basis. After all, Victor was the heir to the throne of one of the most powerful nations in the world that was currently at war with a lot of people – there was a target on his head. But now, it seemed Yakov was prepared to relax his rules for the benefit of his eldest son’s twenty-seventh birthday. Of course, because Victor always got what he wanted. He was currently in the process of quickly ripping off his skates and pulling on his boots to run back up to the palace, Mila giggling and following him as fast as she could despite her skirts dragging in the snow and holding her back. Lilia would have words with her about that, for sure, but she didn’t seem to care. 

Yuri stayed behind and took his time, perching on the edge of the stone loveseat to unlace his skates and slip his feet out. The cold air hit his toes immediately and he grabbed for his boots to keep himself warm. Truthfully, he knew very little about Japan. He didn’t know what or who a Shogun was, or why it was so impressive that this Katsuki Yuuri had performed for them on more than one occasion. The only thing he knew about Japan, having overheard conversations between Lilia and her advisors, was that the leader had closed off the country completely. They were in isolation, nobody could leave, nobody could enter. Yakov must have worked incredibly hard to arrange the visit from this Japanese skater, if he were technically supposed to remain inside his borders. But that didn’t surprise Yuri in the slightest; Yakov would go to any lengths to accommodate the desires of his eldest son. Yuri always told himself he wasn’t bitter about it, that it was simply because Victor had been there first for a full ten years before him, so it was only natural that their bond would be stronger than the one he and Yakov shared. Still, that didn’t stop him from wearing a slightly sour expression on his face as he collected his skates and trudged his way through the crunchy, fresh snow back towards the palace.

Victor’s birthday was in three days. Three days to prepare for an international visit that should not have been possible, had it not been for Yakov’s determination to give Victor whatever he wanted. Three days before the palace was turned into a stage for what promised to be a breathtaking performance. And, unbeknownst to Yuri, three days before his entire life was changed against his will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	2. Jealousy

Yuri didn’t realise the scale of the Japanese skater’s arrival until he was inside the palace and swept up in the preparations himself. Almost as soon as he set foot through the double doors leading into the glass reception room, he had to narrowly avoid getting tangled in the heavy velvet drapes that were being hung about the walls by servants up tall ladders. They were a deep red colour, and after some searching in the back of his mind, Yuri remembered from a past geography lesson that the colours of the Japanese flag were red and white. Of course, Yakov would try to appeal to their guests by decorating the place in their national colours. 

Similar preparations were being undertaken all over the palace. As Yuri removed his coat and went to put away his skates for cleaning down in the kitchens, he witnessed the impressive sight of their finest china being brought out and laid along the table in the dining room, each plate and bowl individually wrapped in thin muslin cloth to stop them chipping as they were unpacked. New candles were placed in the chandeliers hanging above the table and everything was dusted and polished to perfection, the sharp scent of furniture wax heavy in the air. The newer, smarter uniforms to be worn by the servants had been unpacked from their wrappings and were currently hanging up to let any creases fall out of the fabric, and there was a line of shoes along the doorstep of the kitchens waiting to be polished and buffed. Yuri left his skates at the end of this line, to be tended to once the others had been sorted. 

He made his way upstairs to his bedroom, avoiding stepping on the red runner that was being carefully placed down the centre of the staircase. Really, it was rather ridiculous. It was likely that their visitor would only see a few rooms of the palace, but Yakov and Lilia seemed to be insisting that every square inch was primed and ready just in case he happened to stumble upon it. Yuri supposed it made a little sense; Japan had closed itself off to international relations for decades, and Russia had to put on its best face now that they were allowing one of their own to venture there. Also, it dawned on him as he made his way into his room and removed his boots, this was for Victor’s birthday. Chances were that the palace would have been cleaned and prepared just the same even if the Japanese skater hadn’t been coming to stay. 

Yuri sighed, glad to be away from the panic of downstairs. He appreciated his solitude and privacy at the best of times, and he didn’t like the commotion of people running around in a frenzy. It made him feel like he himself should somehow be preparing, although he knew his only responsibility was to dress smartly for the performance and be polite to their guests. That, particularly, would be drilled into him by Lilia before he was allowed anywhere near this Katsuki Yuuri man. He was sure of it. His mother loved him and spoiled him but she was all too aware of his fussy temperament. He couldn’t help but feel a little bitter about the whole situation. Yakov’s extravagant gifts had always planted a small seed of jealousy in the pit of Yuri’s stomach, every year, that he intensely disliked as it proved to him he was envious of his brother. Lilia bought him nice things for his own birthday, but they were always very generic – a new set of clothes or a new coat – nothing that had been bought with any particular care as to whether he himself would like it. There wasn’t the same thought put into the gifts as Yakov put into Victor’s. It made Yuri question whether his parents understood him, his personality, his likes and dislikes, or whether they simply didn’t care. Victor always tried his best to be humble and play down his excitement every 25th of December, when Yakov would present him with those ornately-wrapped boxes and await his reaction, because he knew how much it bothered Yuri and he didn’t want to upset his younger brother. Victor would rather forgo the gifts if it stopped Yuri resenting him. 

This time, however, Yuri knew there would be no holding back on Victor’s part. The way his face had lit up from the inside when Mila had spilled her gossip about Katsuki’s arrival said it all, told Yuri exactly how excited he was and would continue to be for the next three days until his present got there. Yuri decided to resign himself to it, do his very best not to be upset with Victor purely because he was the favourite of their parents. After all, it wasn’t Victor’s fault, people were just naturally drawn to him whereas Yuri naturally repelled them. 

He collapsed into the window seat and leaned his forehead against the frozen glass panes, looking down into the courtyard below. There was a fire burning there, over which large barrels of hot water were being prepared for baths later that evening. Some of the servants were standing there hanging laundry on a line, although Yuri didn’t know how they expected it to dry with the temperature so low and the threat of more snow always imminent. Out in the distance, beyond the tall gates of the palace, Yuri could see the tops of buildings in the city, smoke rising from chimney tops and curling up into the sky in long, grey tendrils. It was peaceful, calming, to simply sit back and watch the world go by from a quiet vantage point all of his own. Yuri found himself closing his eyes and letting out a long sigh, stretching his short legs out on the padded window seat cushion. 

His solace didn’t last for long. It never did, he’d learned a long time ago that people in the palace were incapable of minding their own business and would always come to interrupt him no matter what he was doing, eventually. A sharp knock at the door sounded, then it opened and Yuri’s cousin Georgi stepped in to the room without waiting for Yuri to welcome him. Whereas Mila was the daughter of Lilia’s sister, Georgi was the son of Yakov’s brother, and had much less of a connection to Yuri than his other cousin. Yuri didn’t care much for him – he found him…wet, a little weak-willed, not easy to have an intelligent conversation with. He had met Georgi only a handful of times, and the only reason he was currently at the palace in St Petersburg was to distance himself from his home in Moscow, where the woman he had been courting had shocked everyone by choosing somebody else to promise herself to. He had arrived in an embarrassing mess of emotions that Yuri didn’t want any part in, and had only calmed down over the past few days. Yakov shared Yuri’s opinion of him – he couldn’t really stand his nephew’s snivelling, and he was constantly comparing him to Victor, since they were so close in age with Georgi being just two years younger than him. The only real connection Georgi and Yuri shared was their somewhat secret jealousy of Victor; it was only made worse for Georgi since his birthday was December 26th, the day after Victor’s, and yet nobody had mentioned it at all with all the excitement around the Prince’s celebration. 

“Did you need something?” Yuri asked, raising his head from the window but not making a move to stand up. He was comfortable, and he didn’t feel the need to observe any proper etiquette with Georgi. Like it or not, they were family, and that meant Yuri could relax around him. “I was considering going back to sleep.” Victor had woken him up early for skating, and although it had been fun, he saw no reason to stay awake for the rest of the morning now that he knew everyone would be too preoccupied with planning and preparations to pay him any attention. He could read, but then he would have nothing to do in the afternoon, so sleeping seemed like the logical solution. 

Georgi seemed bothered by something, and he walked into the room with his hands folded over his chest. Yuri wondered what the man looked like that Anya had left him for; while Georgi’s personality left something to be desired, he had the same nice blue eyes as Mila despite there being no blood relation, and he had a good strong jaw and defined cheekbones, so he was by no means ugly. Was Anya’s new fiancé somehow better looking? Yuri didn’t pay it too much thought – love and everything that came with it had always confused him, and he didn’t even bother trying to understand it in others. As far as he was concerned, a person’s relationship was no business of his. Georgi stopped at the window seat and sat down on the end by Yuri’s feet, looking out of the window. 

“Are you going to watch the performance?” 

The question surprised Yuri. He’d been concerned that Georgi had only come to him to talk more about his failed courting experience, to wax poetic about his heartbreak and force Yuri to listen to him lamenting the loss of his ‘darling Anya’ since there was nobody else he hadn’t already talked to. He hadn’t been expecting him to bring up the Japanese skater. “Yes,” Yuri said simply, bringing his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them, partially to be more comfortable and partially to give Georgi a little more space on the window seat. For once, he was actually interested in where this conversation might take them. 

Georgi nodded and fell silent for a while, and with his head turned at the angle it currently was, Yuri could see that he was clenching his jaw just a little. There was a lot of depth to his eyes, the sort of depth that meant he was thinking carefully about something. His long fingers were plucking at a loose thread on his jacket, and Yuri couldn’t help but think about how Lilia would never allow him to wander around with even a thread out of place – it served to show how little attention Georgi was paid by anyone of importance. Eventually, Georgi swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “It’s not for us, though, is it?” 

Yuri knew that by ‘us’, Georgi meant ‘me’. He meant, ‘it’s not for me, though, is it?’ He was asking if the performance was intended, in any stretch of the imagination, as a joint gift for both Victor and himself. Georgi shared an enjoyment of ice skating and ice dancing from his experiences on the public lakes in Moscow during the winter – although he was not as skilled or refined as his cousins from St Petersburg, Yuri could see why he might have been holding out some hope that Yakov had brought the skater for him too. He wasn’t even looking at Yuri when he said it, a faint pink colour dusting his cheeks, and for the first time in his life Yuri actually felt sorry for him. He hadn’t felt any remorse on his behalf when he’d come crawling to the palace crying over Anya, nor when he’d apparently been too heartbroken over lost love to eat, but now he understood how he felt. He understood what it felt like to come to the realisation that you were less appreciated than somebody else, that you had been overlooked, and to have to accept it without complaint. 

“Not at all,” Yuri murmured honestly, going back to looking out the window. There was no sense in trying to comfort him by pretending Yakov had been thinking of Georgi by arranging Katsuki’s visit. He’d had Victor and Victor alone on his mind, Yuri wouldn’t be surprised if Yakov had half forgotten Georgi even existed while working so hard to secure Victor’s gift. Down in the courtyard, two servants came and took away one barrel of water from over the fire, bringing another to secure it in place instead. The young son of one of the cooks stomped around chasing birds away from the patches of grain that had been tossed out for them. 

Georgi swallowed again, harder this time. “Doesn’t it ever bother you?” He didn’t have to complete the sentence for Yuri to know what he was implying. Doesn’t it ever bother you that your father cares more about your brother than he does about you? Doesn’t it ever bother you that your mother doesn’t show you the same level of affection? Doesn’t it ever bother you that you and I will never be doted upon like he is? The answer to all of it was yes. Yes, it bothered Yuri. Yes, it angered him and some days he woke up feeling as though he should hate Victor for his privilege. 

But he also understood. Victor was the first son and he was the second – Victor would always have the better, the more decadent lifestyle. One day Victor would be Tsar and inherit the palace and all the summer houses around Russia, he would own the crown jewels and the guards and everything as far as the eye could see. Yuri would live in one of the palaces as the second, the lesser – people would travel for miles to see his older brother and he would be the side-attraction you saw before you reached the main event. It was an unsettling truth to confront, but it was one he had to accept and make peace with. And as much as he sometimes wanted to resent Victor for it, deep down he didn’t want it to come between them. For all their arguing and bickering and Yuri’s hostility towards him when they were younger, Yuri loved him. They were brothers, their status would never be enough to disturb that. 

So, Yuri simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “No.” He slid off the window seat and walked over to his bed, drawing back the covers. “I want to sleep now, I’m tired. Please leave.” It was the nicest, most polite way to put it. He didn’t know why, but the conversation with Georgi had made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like being asked to think about his relationship with Victor, or with his parents. He knew it wasn’t perfect, but he also knew to be thankful for what he had, and not push for more. If it hadn’t been for his parents, he would have died in a workhouse, and if it hadn’t been for Victor, he would have been alone in the palace. 

Georgi sighed and rose from the window seat, going back to folding his arms over his chest. “I’m going to find Mila,” he announced, turning on his heel and heading for the door. It was clear that he had been hoping for a different answer from Yuri. He had wanted Yuri to confess his irritation and jealousy at Victor’s favourable treatment, to humour him and validate that his own feelings of inadequacy weren’t unusual. Yuri felt a little sorry he couldn’t do that for him, but he knew better than to be depreciative of what he had. He knew how fortunate he really was. Georgi had been born into wealth and had grown up in wealth, he didn’t know that there were far worse things than being second-best. 

Once Georgi had left and the door swung shut behind him, Yuri climbed into bed and lay on his side, curled up. He didn’t bother changing out of his clothes, knowing he would likely only be asleep for an hour or so before he was woken up by servants for lunch and afternoon lessons. As he lay there, waiting for sleep to claim him, he could hear the hustle and bustle of the preparations taking place downstairs. The clang of pots and pans, the rattle of china plates, the thumping of carpet beaters expelling dust from the ornate rugs in the corridors. It was these sounds that eventually sent him to sleep, not because they lulled him into relaxation, but because he simply didn’t want to hear them any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	3. Katsuki Yuuri

Victor’s birthday rushed forward like a ship cutting through water. Before Yuri had time to really prepare himself, the palace was in full celebration. The morning of the 25th was hailed in with a fresh blanket of snow and a bright, cloudless sunrise, and Yuri was woken from his sleep by the sounds of trumpets and fanfare outside. It wasn’t enough for the royal family to acknowledge Victor’s birthday, the entire city needed to be enveloped by festivities. It was a tradition that Yakov and Lilia sent out carts containing sweets for the villagers on their sons’ birthdays, which happened at Victor’s request. That was done first thing in the morning, before any of the royals had even risen from their beds. 

Yuri was dressed smartly for the day, more smartly than he would usually be, because everyone was hyperaware of the arrival of Katsuki Yuuri later that afternoon. Once the servants attending him were satisfied with the way he looked, and his hair had been neatly braided and laced through with small pearls, he was sent down to breakfast to dine with his family. This was a rare occurrence, reserved only for special occasions. Usually Lilia took her breakfast in her room so she could wake up later in the morning, Yakov sat in his study with a hot cup of sbiten and read over the papers, while Victor and Yuri sat in the conservatory to eat with Mila, and now Georgi. That morning, however, everyone was there around the table in the glass room, the sun warming them despite the temperature outside. The table had been laid with an array of breakfast foods – eggs cooked several ways, hot buttered toast, tea, porridge with honey, cheese dumplings – along with a neat pile of letters addressed to Victor from well-wishers who he’d met at balls and parties yet likely hadn’t spoken to since. 

Before anybody could touch any of the food, Victor had to go through each letter and read them aloud, which was a tedious process considering not all of them were in Russian and every person gathered at the breakfast table had different grasps on different languages. Yuri and Victor, for example, spoke perfect Russian, English and French, while Mila and Georgi knew only Russian and English, and Yakov and Lilia surprisingly knew only Russian fluently, although Lilia had a somewhat shaky grasp on English from her diplomatic ventures abroad. This made for a lot of stop-and-start moments where Victor would have to first read a line in the language in which it was written, then translate it for those who didn’t understand, and proceed like that until he blessedly put that letter aside and picked up the next one. 

Eventually, the formalities were done and they were allowed to eat. The food was delicious, and Yuri ate more than he usually would in the mornings because it wasn’t often that they got such a spread like this. Breakfast primarily consisted of an egg, singular, with slices of toast to dip into it. He’d be allowed more if he asked for it, but it was generally considered best to have a small meal first thing in the morning, so he planned on taking full advantage of the feast prepared for Victor’s birthday. 

After they’d all had their breakfast, there was time for them to take a short walk around the gardens to allow their food to go down, and to allow the servants time to clear away the cutlery and crockery and bring out the neatly wrapped gifts that had been sent to Victor. Yuri watched his brother closely as they walked, and he could see a restless sort of energy in him, clearly eager for the day to pass despite all the attention he was receiving so they would be able to see Katsuki’s performance in the evening. Yakov had sternly forbidden them from going anywhere near the back of the palace for the entire day – that included looking out of the windows – so that Victor would be surprised when he saw the stage that had been set for the skate. It was a rule Victor reluctantly adhered to, trying to sneak off to get a look more than once until Mila and Yuri noticed and dragged him away. 

The gifts were as Yuri had expected: extravagant. On top of the gift of the Japanese skater, Yakov announced that a new ship was to be built and added to Russia’s fleet, the largest one yet, and would be named ‘Nikiforov’ after the birth name of his beloved first son. Gifts had also arrived from other countries over which Russia had political control – a gesture of goodwill and to some extent a plea that Lilia would continue to govern them justly – Victor’s apparent favourite being an elegant wooden box painted in sky blue and gold, the colours of Kazakhstan, containing several bottles of different spirits that had been distilled especially for the prince. It was an impressive haul of gifts to show for a birthday that marked no real milestone in terms of age, and Victor seemed very pleased, assuring his father he would write to everybody and thank them as soon as he returned to his rooms that night. Yuri also presented his brother with his own gift of a deep, blood red cashmere scarf, which paled in comparison to the other presents but which Victor still treated like it was precious in a way that somehow didn’t seem patronising. 

Lunch was a small and fast affair, with everybody poised and ready to leave their seats at a moment’s notice if news came of Katsuki Yuuri’s arrival at the palace. Yuri picked at his plate of food with a look of boredom, matched by Georgi beside him who didn’t seem at all interested in eating anything. Mila shared Victor’s excitement and fed it like feeding logs onto a fire, leaning across the table to chatter animatedly until the doors at the end of the room opened and servant stepped in to announce that the Japanese carriages had drawn in to the courtyard. Victor was up and out of his chair like a shot, practically sprinting through the palace in a way that Lilia would call ‘undignified’, if she had been around to witness it. The Empress had retired to her rooms after the exchanging of Victor’s presents in order to rest before the performance, which was expected to happen late enough in the evening that she might otherwise tire halfway through it. 

Victor had one step out of the front doors of the palace when a young, short woman suddenly stepped into his path. She was Japanese, which was perhaps why she didn’t see the harm in obstructing the prince of Russia, and although she was so much shorter than him she had a somewhat imposing stance with her hands on her hips and her chin tilted upwards. “Katsuki Yuuri is unable to greet you at this time, your highness.” She spoke no Russian, clearly, although her English was near-perfect. Some consonants sounded a little strange to Yuri, who had appeared to linger at Victor’s shoulder, but he could understand her well enough. 

Judging by Victor’s expression, anyone would have been justified to guess that someone had told him a tragedy. His face fell and an air of desperation overcame him, stretching on the tips of his toes with childlike excitement and eagerness. “Please? I just want to welcome him…” 

The short woman shook her head firmly. “He has been exhausted by his journey, we have been travelling for several days and he is adamant that he rests before he performs for you tonight, your highness. My friend would hate to disappoint your expectations by failing to entice you with his routine, which he will only be able to complete if he spends time recovering his sleep now.” She said it in such a way that told Victor there would be no negotiations, that Katsuki was practically already asleep for all the good it would do Victor to keep asking. It was interesting to Yuri that she labelled herself as the man’s friend – he had assumed she was a servant upon first impressions but now realised that this person wasn’t royalty, and that despite his skill and talent he likely didn’t have a plethora of staff as they did at the palace. It made sense that he would choose a companion to travel with him, keep him company. He wondered if perhaps they were romantically involved – he really knew nothing about the skater himself, not his age nor his status as a bachelor or not – but didn’t spend too long dwelling on the possibility, knowing it was none of his business.

“Come on, brother,” Yuri said, wrapping a hand around Victor’s arm and tugging lightly. “We can go and make our own preparations. We still need to dress for the performance, and take our seats.” He didn’t want Victor to spend his time trying to catch a glimpse of a skater who would probably be so tired that he would treat his easily-excitable older brother with disdain and a short temper. The illusion of this brilliant ice dancer would be spoiled very fast in Victor’s mind if he met the man and was immediately snapped at for disturbing his sleep. 

Reluctantly, Victor agreed to follow Yuri to his rooms upstairs, where more servants came to ensure they were ready to sit through Katsuki’s routine. Both princes were draped in thick fur coats, Victor’s a deep grey flecked with white and Yuri’s a burnt russet colour, trimmed with brown fur around the hood. Victor, in a move that Yuri expected was to humour him, wrapped the deep red scarf around his neck and smiled proudly at his reflection in the mirror when he pointed out how nicely the colour complemented the grey of his coat. Yuri didn’t reply, but his mouth twitched in a small smile when he turned away to pull on his gloves. Victor insisted on re-doing his hair before they went back downstairs, and in the absence of a servant to do it for him, he enlisted Yuri’s help in twisting the long strands into a neat braid over one of his shoulders. Yuri stood behind him, his small, nimble fingers working quickly through muscle-memory of his time in the workhouse. Victor’s hair behaved like cotton under his touch, until eventually it was tied off with a deep blue ribbon that matched the blue of his eyes. 

For a moment Yuri stood there, staring at both of them in the mirror. To somebody who didn’t know any different, they could be brothers by blood. Both had light hair despite the difference in shades, and the striking colours of their eyes seemed so alike that it would be easy to believe they were a pair. Yuri was developing the delicate shape of Victor’s face as he grew older, too, his smooth porcelain skin covering what would surely be a set of high cheekbones once he reached his full maturity. Perhaps he would one day be tall like Victor too, since their lean figures were already so similar. Yuri often wondered if that was the reason he had never felt out of place at the palace. Despite Yakov’s favouritism towards Victor, despite Lilia’s cool and distant brand of affection, Yuri had never felt like he didn’t belong there, and he often thought that it had a lot to do with the likeness between himself and his adopted brother. 

As if he knew Yuri’s line of thought, Victor silently rose from the stool in front of his dresser and turned around, wrapping his arms around Yuri without a word. The fur coats made it a little difficult for them to get close, but when Yuri pressed his face to Victor’s shoulder he could smell the familiar scent of the lavender oils that Victor favoured in his baths. He could feel Victor’s slender arms tight around him, hear Victor nudge his nose into the crown of Yuri’s hair and inhale slightly. The embrace felt…significant, somehow. It wasn’t the first time Victor had ever hugged him and Yuri was sure it wouldn’t be the last, but there was still something about it that didn’t sit right in the pit of his stomach. His brother was holding him too tightly, remaining too silent. 

When they drew apart Yuri chose not to comment on what had transpired between them. Instead he took up the first of the two crowns that had been selected for them from the royal collection, motioning for Victor to stoop down so he could place it on his head. Victor’s was the gift that Yakov had given him all those years ago, with its beautiful sapphires and topaz stones surrounded by perfectly cut diamonds. It sat nicely atop the braid Yuri had just fashioned, and worked well with the blue ribbon at the end of it. Yuri’s own crown for the night was nothing so personal, a simple yellow gold inlaid with a scattering of diamonds – to accentuate the colour of the fur coat under the firelight, the servants had told him as an excuse for the choice, when Yuri knew the reality of the situation was that he didn’t warrant a more valuable crown and they didn’t have one of his own to give him like they did with Victor. 

Together, he and his brother left Victor’s chambers and made their way downstairs to the back of the palace. Finally they were allowed to see what Yakov had done his very best to keep secret all day. Night had fallen and the sky was a deep, inky black, and Yuri kept his arm linked firmly with Victor’s so neither of them would lose their footing as they walked down the stone steps at the rear of the palace. As soon as they broke past the row of hedges and out onto the sprawling grounds, Victor gasped and let his hand drop from Yuri’s out of pure shock and elation. 

The long garden had been completely changed from how Yuri remembered it. A perfectly rectangular ice rink had been set up, surrounded by wooden beams, so Katsuki would not have to skate on the lake as the princes did when they practiced. At the four corners of the rink there were large fires, at a safe enough distance that they wouldn’t melt the ice, to illuminate his performance in a warm glow. Rows upon rows of seats had been set out along the two longest sides of the rectangular rink, and those seats were currently occupied by Russia’s elite, who had all been invited to watch the routine as a celebration of Victor’s birthday. Georgi’s parents were both there, and although the wound was still a little fresh in Yuri’s opinion, Anya and her new fiancé were seated just two rows behind them. Owners of large companies and enterprises were also present, along with countesses and duchesses and more minor nobles from the outer regions who would no doubt be spending the night in the palace to compensate for the long journey. 

At the head of the rink, on one of the shorter sides of the rectangle, a raised platform had been erected upon which there stood the four thrones that usually resided in the palace throne room. Lilia’s beside Yakov’s, Victor’s on the right, and Yuri’s on the left. Just in front of the platform there stood an orchestra of violins and harps and all manner of other instruments ready to provide the musical accompaniment to Katsuki’s performance. Yakov and Lilia were already seated and the rows of seats along the sides of the rink were awash with unintelligible chatter, which only simmered down when Yuri pulled Victor out of his trance and up on to the platform to sit down. 

A hush fell on the crowd. 

Yakov rose from his throne and walked to the front of the platform. Generally speaking, Lilia as Empress would have been expected to make a speech at an event like this, but given Yakov’s adoration of his oldest son and the knowledge of absolutely everyone there that this performance had been entirely his doing, it seemed fitting for him to do so instead. He placed his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders, and Yuri, sat behind him, was struck by how much power and influence his parents really had. The people were watching him like hawks, not a sound made amongst any of them. 

“I would like to thank you all for being here with us tonight,” Yakov began, his voice loud and clear enough that it reached the very far end of the rink where there were no seats, just an open view of the snow-covered gardens beyond. Everyone had fallen so silent that his voice seemed to echo and reverberate through the air. “To celebrate the birthday of my eldest son, Victor. As he enters his twenty-seventh year, I am deeply moved to see such a gathering of friends, family and associates who care for him as deeply as I do. The routine you shall see tonight is inspired by one of my son’s many talents and passions, ice dancing, and is brought before us by Japan’s most renowned performer. It is my hope and my wish that the work of Katsuki Yuuri will entertain and enthral you, and that when you look back on this night and think of it, you are reminded of your prince.” He turned his body slightly to address his family, and said, “Victor, my son. Happy birthday.” 

There was a round of applause from the crowd and Yakov returned to his seat with a look in his eyes that Yuri, even from his removed position with Lilia in between them, could see was choked-up pride and emotion. Lilia slid her eyes over her husband with an unreadable expression as the applause died down and a single figure glided out from seemingly nowhere into the centre of the ice. 

Even from a distance, there was no denying that Katsuki Yuuri was a beautiful man. He didn’t seem to be particularly tall or particularly short, just of average height with a toned build that didn’t look as effortless as Victor and Yuri’s own slender limbs, but instead looked like he had worked hard to achieve it. But it was his face that drew attention to him; jet black hair, darker than any Yuri had ever seen in Russia, was smoothed neatly back off his forehead with some sort of wax or pomade to reveal a pair of eyes that were wide and innocent, framed by dark lashes. It was a testament to their striking nature that Yuri noticed them from all the way up on the platform, and he could tell Victor had caught on to the sight of them too, as he was watching him intently with the corner of his lips curled upwards. He was wearing an outfit that was entirely black in colour and fitted very close to his body so as not to hinder his movements, with what looked like glass or crystals sewn from his shoulder diagonally down to his waist, where the outfit flared out a little to accentuate hips in an almost feminine silhouette. 

There was a moment of silence during which nobody moved or spoke or coughed or even dared to breathe too loudly. Then, all at once, the orchestra struck up a song so powerful and intense Yuri shifted a little on his throne out of surprise. It was strange, not like the music Yuri was accustomed to hearing, although it faded into the background when he looked up from glaring at the conductor and actually took notice of Katsuki’s performance. It was…mesmerising. All at once Yuri was ready to believe Mila’s rumour about audiences being unable to blink while he was skating. The way his body moved, lithe and controlled yet somehow still free with the impression of spontaneity, was captivating. It was only after a few moments that Yuri realised how…intimate the performance seemed. Yuri was only fourteen, and since arriving at the palace had been given a sheltered upbringing, so what he knew of love and sex was incredibly limited. But any fool, no matter how old, could see the performance was carried out with the intention of seducing whoever was watching. One glance to the side at his parents told him that neither Yakov or Lilia had been expecting such a…visceral display. Their expressions were ones of mild shock mixed with confusion and uncertainty, and more than once Lilia inclined her head towards Yuri as if she were about to say something, only to think better of it and sit up straight again. If she had been planning on asking Yuri to look away, she didn’t have to – Yuri had taken a peek at how his brother was reacting to all of this, and found himself far more interested in that than in the rest of Katsuki’s routine. Victor was leaning forward in his seat so far that he was practically hanging off the edge, his chin propped on his hand and his eyes wide and bright. And, although it was very difficult to tell in just the light from the fires, Yuri thought he saw his cheeks turn pink. Perhaps it was from the cold. 

In a perfect turn of fate, clouds that had been hidden by the dark sky suddenly decided to open, and soft flakes of snow began to fall around Katsuki Yuuri as he skated his way towards the climax of his performance. Arms twisting and moving elegantly and legs spinning him into and out of jumps that were more impossibly complicated than anything Victor had ever attempted, the Japanese skater seemed lost to the music and the story that was no doubt playing behind his heavy-lidded eyes. The song got faster and faster, almost frenzied, building further and further towards its end until the routine stopped with a flourish, Katsuki poised in the very centre of the ice again with his arms wrapped around himself and his chest visibly rising and falling from exertion. 

It was the most incredible thing Yuri had ever seen. 

Instantly there was a roar of applause and cheering from the crowd, the likes of which Yuri wouldn’t have expected from a gathering of titled nobility and high society. Bunches of flowers were thrown from the rows of seats onto the ice, some of them narrowly missing the roaring fires to land in scatters around Katsuki’s feet. The skater stood there in his pose a little while longer before he allowed his face to break into a smile, holding his arms out and taking a deep bow. It was as though someone had snuffed out a candle – the light and fire that had been there throughout the seductive sequence was gone, replaced with that same wide-eyed innocence he’d worn when he’d first set foot in the rink. 

Katsuki stooped and picked up one particularly large bouquet of red roses that had fallen close to him. With the bunch tucked under his arm, he skated to the edge of the rink and the short woman from before came to help him out of his skates and into a pair of boots that looked brand new. No doubt a courtesy from Yakov to aid with the man’s adjustment to Russian winter. Once he was stable on his feet in the snow, Katsuki made his way towards the podium, and climbed up the stairs on the side closest to Yuri. Of course, official greetings. Yuri had almost completely forgotten that this would be a required part of the evening’s festivities, since everything about what they had just witnessed seemed to subvert tradition and stamp etiquette into the dirt. It was like visiting a brothel and asking to shake the woman’s hand after, in Yuri’s opinion. There was no doubt that the performance had been beautiful, but he found it impossible to comprehend what actually meeting this man would be like. 

Katsuki approached Yuri first, bowing at the waist and saying, “It was an honour to perform for you, your highness,” in a polite, slightly hurried voice. He had a similar way of speaking to the woman they’d met earlier, except his pronunciation was better, cleaner. Yuri expected he’d had some sort of tutelage to be able to speak that fluently. Instead of replying, he simply nodded his head in acknowledgement. He was never sure what to say to people who greeted him. Katsuki moved on to Yakov and Lilia, who he greeted simultaneously with yet another bow and an expression of thanks for the opportunity to come to the palace. Yakov was full of praise, strategically neglecting to mention how risqué the performance had been. 

Lastly, Katsuki approached Victor. Yuri leaned forward in his chair just a fraction to be able to see better, which meant he had a good view when the man knelt down in front of his brother and bowed his head. This was new. Victor didn’t seem phased, strangely enough, and instead reached for Katsuki’s hand. He brought it to his lips, kissed it softly, and returned it to where it had been hanging by his side. Yuri blinked. He continued to watch as Katsuki removed a rose from the bouquet beneath his arm and offered it to Victor with the most angelic blush on his cheeks that Yuri had ever seen, and Victor accepted it with a smile, bringing it to his nose to inhale its sweet scent. 

The small Japanese woman appeared as if from thin air, materialising by the side of the platform to help Katsuki down back onto the snow. Yuri wondered how precious his talent was that he apparently needed somebody to aid him in climbing up and down stairs – he supposed an injury to his legs would be rather detrimental in a career founded upon one’s ability to use them. She linked her arm through her friend’s and began to guide him back towards the palace, where Yuri knew there had been rooms prepared especially for him to spend the night before embarking on the long journey back to his home country the following morning. The bitter devil on Yuri’s shoulder quipped that perhaps his travels would be faster if he boarded the new Nikiforov flagship that was to be bestowed upon his brother; Yuri shoved the thought aside by closing his eyes and taking a breath of ice cold air. 

“Thank you, Papa, thank you so much,” Victor was exclaiming, clutching Yakov’s sleeve and practically trembling with excitement. “It was wonderful, you’ve spoiled me! How can I ever thank you enough?” He flashed the smile that had won him his adoption twenty years ago, the radiant blue of his eyes shining bright. 

Yakov chuckled fondly and rose from his throne, encouraging Victor to do the same by laying an aged hand over Victor’s fingers on his arm. And he delivered the line that he always did, every year, like clockwork when Victor professed his gratitude for his presents, “Nothing is too much for my son, Vitya. You are more than welcome.” It was a line so familiar that Yuri could mouth along with it if he wanted, although it had never been directed at him in all the ten years that he had lived at the palace. 

Father and son descended the stairs and began their walk together back towards the palace, and Yuri was about to stomp away too when he felt bony, icy fingers slide through his own. “Walk with me, Yuri.” Lilia was already rising from her seat, arranging her skirts neatly. She took a little more time than Yakov and Victor to get down the stairs purely out of caution that she didn’t accidentally tread on her dress and trip, but soon the pair of them were crunching through snow, Yuri childishly trying to place his feet in the prints already left by Victor’s shoes. They were far enough behind Yakov and Victor that they couldn’t hear their conversation even at full volume, but Lilia still kept her voice lowered as though they were sharing secrets when she inclined her head down towards Yuri and asked, “Did you enjoy the performance?” There was the ghost of a smile on her thin lips, and the small squeeze to his arm sent a rare yet welcome bolt of warmth through Yuri’s body. He gave his mother a minute nod. “I was not expecting it,” Lilia admitted, the continuation of the conversation surprising Yuri as Lilia was most commonly a woman of few words. “The…sensuality of it.” So Yuri hadn’t been the only one to notice it, then. “But it was entertaining.” 

She fell silent for a while, until they reached the steps leading up into the palace. Yakov had already vanished to go and oversee the final preparations for the evening’s banquet, and Victor was nowhere to be seen. Lilia turned to Yuri and placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him walking away, then cupped his cheek gently with her palm. They stood there like that, one side of Yuri’s body cold from the outside air and the other too warm from the candles inside, Lilia staring down at him with an expression he couldn’t decipher. “We will do something for you, Yuri,” she said, before letting him go and disappearing down the corridor that led to the drawing room. 

Yuri stood there silently. Do something for him? If it was intended to assure him that his birthday would not be overlooked, it was a rather uninspiring assurance. ‘Something’ told him absolutely nothing. ‘Something’ could mean anything. ‘Something’ did not, in any way, inspire dreams of grand banquets or exotic ice dancing performances. If anything, all it did was make Yuri concerned that Lilia had somehow overheard he and Georgi talking a few days prior, and mistaken Georgi’s unhappiness for jealousy on Yuri’s part. Even if that were true, he didn’t want her to think him ungrateful. 

He sighed, deciding he was too hot in the fur coat and there was no sense dwelling on what had probably only been a throwaway comment as far as his mother was concerned. He removed the heavy garment and handed it to a servant who was waiting diligently by the door, then climbed the grand staircase to get to his bedroom and change for dinner. Now he walked directly on the red runner – Katsuki had seen it already, there was no sense maintaining the illusion that it was always so pristine and perfect. He left snowy footprints in a trail, all up the stairs and down the fourth floor corridor, until the quiet sounds of a hushed conversation reached his ears from just around a corner.

“…Was worried about you, they told me you weren’t feeling well…”

That was Victor’s voice, undoubtedly. But there was a certain lilt to it, a tone Yuri had never heard him use before. He took another few steps forward, placing his feet carefully so as not to step on any of the floorboards that he knew from experience would creak if he touched them. 

“…Didn’t want you to see me, it had to be a surprise…”

Now who was that? It was another male voice, but not one he immediately recognised. Certainly not Georgi’s, it wasn’t deep enough. Most definitely not Yakov’s. He ventured closer still. Whoever it was, he and Victor were speaking quietly enough that he only caught pieces of their discussion, not full sentences. Soft sounds of laughter replaced actual conversation, suppressed giggles drifting down the corridor.

Yuri leaned just his head around the corner.

A little further away, Katsuki Yuuri was leaning against the wall now dressed in eveningwear for the banquet. His hair was slicked back as it had been for his performance, only now there was a pair of glasses over his eyes. Victor was dressed for dinner too, standing in front of him with his hands placed flat on the wall either side of his head, effectively trapping him there. But Katsuki didn’t seem at all bothered, his expression dark and lustful as he looked up through those dark eyelashes at Victor. With no more words exchanged between them, Victor leaned down to close the distance created by their height and pressed their lips together firmly, confidently. The kiss was slow and languid and deep but clearly very heated, Victor’s tongue slipping into Katsuki’s mouth with a soft moan and a hand dropping to cup his waist while the other’s hands tangled desperately in Victor’s hair.

Yuri clapped his hands over his mouth to stop himself gasping and giving himself away, whipping back around the corner where he pressed himself firmly against the wall. What the hell. What the hell what the hell what the hell. His brother was kissing his birthday gift, a man he’d only just met, in the halls of the palace where absolutely anyone could see them. Where somebody had seen them, in fact, and was now trying to comprehend what had gotten in to his brother to make him act that way. Was this who Victor was, underneath the nurturing familial personality he exhibited around Yuri? Had he always been so driven by lust and sex as he clearly was now? Or had this skater bewitched him with that intimate performance, was it his fault Victor had been persuaded to act so out of character?

He was unable to move. He couldn’t continue to his room now, they would realise he had caught them. He would have to accept the scolding he was going to get from Lilia for not changing into new clothes for dinner, because he would rather that than admitting to Victor what he had seen. Yuri was about to turn away when the whispered voices returned again, this time much more breathless,

“We should go to the banquet, people will be waiting.”

Yuri turned and sprinted down the corridor as fast as his legs would carry him, arriving in the dining room to take his place at the table mere minutes before the doors opened and Victor strode in, Katsuki Yuuri several steps behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	4. Missing

“Yuri! Drink, come and drink with me!” If breakfast had been a spread, the banquet held for that night’s dinner was a feast to feed an army. Dishes were spread across the length of the table so tightly that you could barely move to reach for one without accidentally knocking another, and the contents of them were so varied it was as if chefs from around the world had come to prepare them. There was a variety of meat and potatoes in abundance, vegetables steamed and boiled and roasted, alongside dishes from Japan that were fried and rolled in crumbs of bread or swimming in long noodles. Everyone had a little something of everything on their plates, people leaning across the table to feed their friends off their own forks, insisting they try each new food. 

And there was alcohol. There was so much alcohol, the likes of which Yuri had never seen before. Guests had brought their own bottles of finely aged wine as gifts for Victor, and Yakov had of course brought out the very best from the palace wine cellar to celebrate the occasion. Yakov himself was ever so slightly pink in the face from the festivities, and Lilia was doing her best to remain poised at the head of the table despite the flush in her cheeks and the tell-tale empty glasses gathered around her place setting. The best part, however, was that nobody thought to stop Yuri from enjoying himself as well. He’d never been forbidden from drinking despite his age – it was something of a staple in Russian culture, especially Russian high society – and he knew how to hold his alcohol, but there was often somebody to keep an eye on him and stop him after two or three glasses. Tonight, though, all eyes were on Victor and he was free as a bird to do as he pleased. 

He and Mila had been huddled in the corner of the room with Georgi almost the whole evening, having abandoned the table after dessert had been served in favour of sitting on the floor. Yuri and Georgi had managed to end up on the crunchy petticoats of Mila’s dress, which she’d initially scolded them for, warning them that if they dented the firm structure her mother would be furious, but now it was just funny as Yuri kept sneaking away to steal more bottles from the table and hide them under those conveniently bushy skirts. They’d even forgone glasses, instead taking sips from the bottle which Yuri consistently reminded Mila in a slurred voice was “awfully unladylike”, which always earned him a sharp nudge of her elbow to his ribcage in return. It was fun, Yuri hadn’t been at liberty to enjoy himself so unrestrained for a long time – now that he considered it, since Victor’s last birthday, really. 

The wine drained him of all his anger too, for a short while. He was no longer bitter or jealous in the slightest, only giddy and happy and weightless. The three of them returned to the table to eat the desserts that were steadily being devoured by the guests, huge mountains of chak-chak and sweetmeats and vatrushka and a vast replica of the St Petersburg palace fashioned entirely from gingerbread and sugar icing. Yuri broke off the gingerbread flag at the top almost immediately and squirrelled it away back to his corner, chewing happily as he watched Mila and Georgi fight over the delicate lattice sugar work that made up the front gates of the palace. He found himself giggling, only softly under his breath, although nobody was close enough to hear him. 

The party steadily migrated to the ballroom as each guest pushed themselves up from their chairs and staggered through the long corridors. It was an endless source of amusement for Yuri, Mila and Georgi to watch the women stumbling over their long skirts and the men grasping for canes to steady themselves on their journey. Every time somebody encountered a floorboard that was a little more raised than the one before it, there would be a moment of flapping and panic where the trio waited with held breath to see if a long line of nobles would fall like dominoes, only to be disappointed when someone a little more sober prevented a catastrophe from happening. Mila had her two cousins help her by holding the front of her skirts up like a reverse-train, so she could see the tips of her shoes and be sure that she wasn’t going to fall. 

When they made it to the ballroom, the expanse of open space only seemed to encourage people to act wilder, become more vibrant and excited. It was like animals on a wide open plain, running about drunkenly and swinging each other in messy, uncomplicated dances. Had they all been sober, the ball would have been an entirely different affair, with choreographed and ordered steps and a much quieter atmosphere. But they were drunk and happy, and nobody wanted to stop. 

Bottles were smashed. Wine was spilled. People’s laughter filled the echoing space of the ballroom until it all merged together and overcame the music being dutifully delivered by the orchestra in the corner. Yuri was no different, allowing Mila to toss him about between herself and Georgi as the three of them became breathless with uncontrollable fits of giggling. He was swung into Victor’s arms at one point, and his brother picked him up and spun him round and round in the air until he begged him to set him down before he got ill, laughing the entire time. He danced with Yakov briefly, who was drunk enough to allow him to stand on his toes so he could walk him around the room in a clumsy imitation of a waltz. Then it was back to Mila, then to Georgi, then even into the arms of a ruddy-cheeked Katsuki Yuuri for what seemed like only a split second. 

Yuri danced until the room was spinning. He and his cousins spun and stepped and stumbled until past midnight, until the elderly and more easily fatigued of their guests bid the Empress and her husband goodnight before getting into their carriages and leaving. Yuri drank until he couldn’t get another drop from his bottle, until he and Katsuki Yuuri found themselves together lamenting the absence of any more alcohol. 

Yuri refused to stop until Lilia, sobered from her dancing and her own self-restraint with her drinking, laid a hand on his shoulder in the now empty ballroom and told him it was time for bed. The final few guests were trailing one by one out into the entrance hall, half departing into carriages with waiting drivers and others making the slow, unsteady ascent upstairs to their rooms for the night. Lilia walked with Yuri to his bedroom door to ensure he stayed put, sitting on the edge of his bed as her son changed into his nightshirt and crawled under the covers. And she was still intoxicated enough, it seemed, to stoop and press a small kiss to Yuri’s temple, bidding him goodnight before snuffing out his candle and leaving the room. 

At one in the morning, he fell asleep almost immediately. 

Just three hours later, he was awoken. 

A different figure was sat on the edge of his bed now, leaning across him and shaking his shoulder urgently to wake him. Yuri’s eyes blinked open slowly, and his stomach lurched as his body debated for a moment whether or not he needed to be sick. When it decided not to, Yuri was able to focus on who was looming over him, and he was met with a pair of blue eyes full of fear, concern, and…tears? 

“Mila?” Yuri sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand and yawning widely. He didn’t know what time it was, it was too dark to see the grandfather clock in the corner and although the moonlight was coming in through the window, it only gave him a little glimpse of the rest of the room. Mila herself was still wearing her night dress, her hair drawn into a braid down her back as she usually wore it when sleeping, so Yuri knew that she had only just woken herself. “What’s going on?” 

Mila sniffed and rubbed her nose. “It’s Victor,” she said, her breath all rushing out of her at once. Yuri felt his blood freeze in his veins. “He’s…oh, Yuri, you need to come now. Come, come.” She slid off the edge of the bed and held her hand out for her cousin to take, pulling him bodily out of his bedroom and down the winding corridors of the palace. It was nearly impossible to see where he was going in the dark as none of the candles along the walls were lit, but he trusted Mila to take him where he needed to go, stumbling along behind her. 

She ended up leading him to Yakov’s study, where the door had been propped open and voices could be heard from inside. Anxious voices, voices full of uncertainty and fear. Yuri pulled his hand out of Mila’s and walked inside, a horrible, sickening feeling curling its way into his stomach. It wasn’t the alcohol doing it, he knew how that felt and this was something different. He stopped in the doorway of the study to observe the scene before him, and take in several sights that he didn’t think he had ever seen before in his life.

Yakov was standing by the window, looking grey-faced and ill. He was clutching a handkerchief in his hand that seemed to be damp, and when Yuri really concentrated on his face in the dim moonlight, he saw wetness on his cheeks also. Lilia was sat in a low chair on the other side of the room, wearing her nightgown but with a cloak draped around her shoulders for some semblance of modesty as she spoke with two uniformed guards standing beside her. She finished her conversation just as Yuri entered, and the guards walked away as she breathed, “Oh, Yuri,” with what sounded like relief.

Yuri felt tears prick his eyes. Something was wrong, something was very very wrong. “Mama?” He walked into the room and into Lilia’s waiting, open arms, curling himself up in her lap. The action alone was enough to tell him something wasn’t right, since he remembered the last time he’d sat like this and it had been during his childhood, just after he’d been adopted. But he felt as though he were only five now, clutching his mother’s cloak and burying his face into the crook of her neck while she rubbed a hand up and down his back. “What’s going on?” he mumbled, dreading the answer but needing to hear it all the same. 

There was a pause, and Yuri could tell Lilia and Yakov were waiting to see who would be the one to answer. But Yakov didn’t even turn from the window, didn’t even seem capable of speech, so Lilia sighed heavily and told him, “Victor is missing, Yuri. A servant went to check the candle was snuffed in his bedroom and he was not in his bed. The guards have searched the palace since and he is nowhere to be found.” Her hand moved up to Yuri’s hair, threading through it in a way that was meant to be comforting to one of them, but Yuri wasn’t sure whom.

It was what he’d been expecting to hear, in a way. He’d known something was wrong the moment Mila had woken him up at what he now saw was four in the morning, and he’d known when he saw both Yakov and Lilia awake also that it had to be something to do with Victor. Missing. Was he missing? Yuri had genuinely intended to keep it a secret, to allow his brother his moment of intimacy despite how confusing it was to him, but he couldn’t withhold what he knew if it might help them find Victor. “Katsuki Yuuri,” he said quietly, his voice a little muffled by the fur trim of Lilia’s cloak. 

“What did you say, Yuri?” 

“Katsuki Yuuri. Did you check Katsuki Yuuri’s bedroom?” Yuri sniffed and raised his head, wiping some tears from the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. The tip of his nose had gone red. “I…I saw…” He had to say it, he had to tell them. Even Yakov’s interest seemed piqued, shoulders stiff and head slightly inclined away from the window towards his youngest son. “Last night before the banquet…I was on the way to my room and I saw…Victor was standing against the wall with him and they were…”

Fortunately, Lilia seemed to understand the implications of what he was trying to say. She nodded and smoothed his hair with her hand, though her expression didn’t change. She didn’t look relieved to have a new piece of information, nor did she make any move to go and notify the guards who were no doubt still searching. “I see,” she simply murmured instead, gathering Yuri back against her chest, where he went willingly. “Thank you, Yuri.” There was a brief moment of silence during which nobody spoke and the only sound in the room came from Mila’s quiet sniffling in the corner. There was also the rustle of fabric, and Yuri realised that Georgi had been standing there the entire time as well, and had just now reached down to place a comforting hand on his cousin’s shoulder. When Lilia next spoke, she was clearly addressing Yakov. “We already checked the skater’s room, yes? We asked him if he knew anything that might be of use?”

Yakov only nodded, an imperceptible thing that Yuri couldn’t see from his vantage point on his mother’s lap, but that Lilia clearly picked up on as she sighed softly and went back to stroking her son’s hair. Yuri wondered if now was the best time for her to be showing affection towards him like that. Usually he was hungry, starved for her to hold him and dote on him, but now it just felt…wrong. Yakov was standing right there, unable to hold Victor the way he so often liked to do, and Lilia had picked this occasion to suddenly keep Yuri close. Somehow it felt unfair to his father, like they were rubbing it in his face. 

The study fell silent for a very long time after that. One by one, Mila and then Georgi were called out of the room by guards, who told them their parents were waiting for them. It appeared Georgi was being sent back to Moscow immediately in a procession of carriages with his parents, Anya and her new fiancé, and Mila’s mother wanted her within eyesight at all times for the foreseeable future. Yuri barely paid any notice as they left, not saying goodbye to Georgi despite not knowing when he would next see him. He couldn’t bring himself to care, it was the least important thing currently happening. When the royal family was left alone, Yuri finally spoke. 

“Do you think he’s alright?” 

It was the voice of a concern he was sure all three of them were feeling. Had Victor vanished with Katsuki Yuuri, or had he disappeared with one of the many other guests who had been at the palace that evening? So many carriages had been and gone throughout the night, the ballroom had been so packed and busy and overcrowded that absolutely anybody from the city could have come in and taken him away without being noticed. Yuri searched the back of his mind to try and remember the last time he’d seen Victor before being sent to bed, and he realised with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that it had been when they’d danced together, when Victor had spun him around in the air. That had been relatively early in the evening, and although he’d seen Katsuki Yuuri since then around the drinks tables and out on the dance floor, he hadn’t seen Victor again. So Victor had disappeared long before Katsuki left the party and went up to bed, which meant the likelihood was that Victor had been stolen away by an uninvited guest. 

There was no reply to his earlier question, and so Lilia had to press for one. She sat forward in her chair, adjusting Yuri in her lap, and looked at her husband with an expression that suggested she was trying her very best to remain as composed as she possibly could. “What are we going to do, Yakov?” she asked, her voice clear and devoid of any emotion. 

Once again she was met with silence. Then, eventually, Yakov drew away from the window and came to sink down on one of the overstuffed sofas close to Lilia’s chair. Morning light was already beginning to peek from over the clouds, sunrise threatening to break cover on the first day without Victor in the palace. Yuri wanted to stop it, wanted to run around every single room and close the curtains and keep the place in darkness so the night could last forever, to give Victor a chance to escape from wherever he was, to come back to them. He had to come back, he couldn’t just be gone. 

Yakov rubbed a weary hand over his forehead. Now, up closer, Yuri could see the marks on his face from where he’d been crying. He’d never seen his father cry before, and somehow it was the most unsettling part of the entire situation. Of course the loss of his eldest, most treasured son would hurt, but Yuri was so unnerved by it that he found himself pressing closer to Lilia. “We will wait two weeks,” Yakov decided, his voice low and gravelly. Yuri’s eyes flickered over to the desk, where there was a half-full glass of scotch and a bottle open beside it. “Two weeks, for a ransom letter to be delivered. If somebody has taken him captive for their own personal gain, two weeks will be more than long enough for them to make their demands.” 

Lilia nodded stiffly, her fingers tightening around Yuri’s arm. “And if somebody took him to rid me of an heir?” She said ‘an’ heir, not ‘my’ heir, because of course Yuri still remained. But Yuri didn’t even want to think about the possibility of being the heir to the throne – no, that was Victor’s job. Victor would be Tsar one day, a great ruler, that was just how it was supposed to be and Yuri refused to entertain any other possibility. 

Yakov looked as pained by the suggestion as Yuri felt, although of course that was because he was plagued with the image of someone killing his son. “If after two weeks we haven’t heard anything, then we must…assume the worst.” His voice was so tight, so cracked and broken. “Then we will observe a period of mourning out of respect for him and send out word of his death.” 

Yuri couldn’t hear any more. Small body trembling, he pushed his face into Lilia’s shoulder and cried and cried and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	5. Mourning and the Letter

The time it took for two weeks to pass by felt a lot like walking through thick mud. That was the only thing Yuri found he could compare it to, and he’d spent a lot of time thinking about it. It felt like walking through mud in the woods after a heavy rain, when your boots stuck and you could hardly move and a journey that should have taken mere seconds instead took almost an hour. That was what it felt like, waiting for two whole weeks to hear any news of his brother. 

The first days were quiet. Yakov shut himself in his study and refused to come out; Lilia fixed it with the staff to have his meals sent there to try and encourage him to eat, but more than once Yuri had seen servants returning to the kitchens with plates full of food that had gone cold and been left entirely untouched. To the best of Yuri’s knowledge, his father was now also sleeping in the bedroom closest to the front of the palace instead of in the master suite with his mother, so he would be the first one to the door if any letter arrived. Not that he was doing much sleeping at all, it seemed, since the few times Yuri saw him he looked like a ghost, a shell of his former self. His skin was a grey hue and his shoulders were slumped as though there was a very heavy weight pressing down on them – the weight, Yuri knew, of the uncertainty about what had happened to Victor. Several times Yuri had knocked on the door to ask him something, only to find him sat facing away from his desk to look at the portrait of Victor that hung above the mantel. It was of him when he was younger, before Yuri had been brought to the palace, his bright blue eyes so lifelike that Yuri wondered if perhaps Yakov was hoping the tiny boy in the painting would suddenly start speaking to him.

For Lilia, the first days consisted of trying to remain as calm as possible in the pursuit of keeping Victor’s disappearance a secret from the public. If somebody had kidnapped him, taken him in for ransom, announcing that he was somewhere out there in the city would just start a bidding war amongst civilians looking to make some money; people would be after him like wolves, and Victor would end up god only knows where. She had the guards out looking for him, searching houses under the pretence of evaluating fire safety. Fires were common in major cities so nobody batted an eyelid or thought twice about the guards who came to check every room in their houses, completely unaware of what – or who – they were really looking for. Yuri didn’t make much attempt to talk to Lilia during those early days, because unlike Yakov, Victor’s disappearance seemed to have kicked something in her. She was working incredibly hard, and Yuri didn’t know what it was about, but she went about her business with a new kind of determination. He supposed losing a son would do that, cause some realisations, some changes. Either way, he kept to himself and didn’t go near the official meeting rooms when she was with her advisors and members of the government. 

Yuri spent the first few days alone. Mila tried to talk to him several times, knocking on his door and standing outside until she gave up and walked away when it became clear he wasn’t going to answer. He didn’t know what to say to her, that was the only reason he wouldn’t let her in. He knew what she’d ask – how are you? Are you alright? And he’d answer – I’m scared, no I’m not alright. And there would be nothing she could do about it, because nobody could bring Victor back now, not until they received a ransom note in the best case scenario or, in a possibility that made Yuri want to vomit, found Victor’s body. And so Yuri remained by himself, holed up in his bedroom on the centre of his bed. He didn’t go near the window, because he had nightmares of looking out to see them wheeling Victor’s corpse through the gates into the courtyard below, and he’d convinced himself that it would happen if he looked out there even once. He snuck away at night to get himself books from the library when he couldn’t sleep, when he was plagued by bad dreams, but he found that he couldn’t be satisfied with any of the stories he chose. Each one seemed to remind him too much of his current situation – they would mention a brother, or a death, and he’d have to close the book immediately. Now there was a whole pile of novels on his nightstand, completely untouched, like a pillar guarding his bed.

More days passed. Yakov still didn’t come out of his study, and the meals that were sent up to him started getting smaller, so as not to waste the food that would inevitably just get sent back to the kitchens again. What had first been plates of duck and potatoes and vegetables turned into bowls of soup or borscht and buttered bread, and each dish was still turned away just the same. Lilia doubled her efforts with the guards, taking more of them off palace security and sending them further afield, away from St Petersburg city and into the more rural areas surrounding it. Her thinking was that a man who’d kidnapped the Prince would not stay in a place where his bright blue eyes would be so easily recognised, so he would most likely have taken him further away. But the issue with that was that it took hours to send the guards out and hours for them to come back, so they couldn’t spend many hours of the day searching. Not to mention the sheer numbers of farms and farmhouses and barns and all the different small buildings where somebody could be hiding Victor if they really wanted to. It was an impossible task, one that seemed to keep getting larger the more they continued working at it. 

Eventually Lilia grew desperate enough to break the news to the people. Yuri had heard her and Yakov discussing it on one of the rare occasions they had spoken that week, when he’d drifted past Yakov’s study on his way to the library. By the sounds of their conversation, they both reached the general consensus that the power of their guards alone was not enough to search every corner of Russia, and that they would have more luck if they could utilise the many eyes they had in the civilians. And so Lilia had addressed a select court of people at the front of the palace on a freezing morning, the sky overcast with clouds and the air so cold that her breath hung there in a cloud as she spoke. She told the people, amongst whom were a scattering of journalists and town criers who would spread the news like wildfire as soon as she was done with her address, that Victor Nikiforov had been taken from them and they were willing to pay good money to anyone who could bring them valuable information on his whereabouts. It was a cold conference, devoid of any emotion, and Yuri wondered if the people would realise how sincere they were about finding him when her tone made it sound as though it were a secondary concern for her. Still, when the guards returned from their patrol the following night, they reported that the people in the city and beyond were putting themselves to work keeping a close watch on neighbours to see if anyone at all was acting in a way that might be suspicious. 

That was a week into the waiting period. For another week after that, no more news came through. Some villagers from smaller areas outside the city tried to come forward with false information in a selfish bid for the reward money, and fortunately Yakov had the good sense to refuse to see them to stop himself getting his hopes up each time. Their stories ranged from the trivial to the bizarre – one claimed to have seen a man with white hair from a distance who perhaps could have been Victor, while another swore blind that he had seen Victor with a fat, middle-aged man wearing a blue coat. The guard interrogating the villager had almost believed that story, until his companion had pointed out that the man was just making up a false description by looking at the painting hanging on the wall behind the guard’s head of a distant royal ancestor. The villager had been turned away fast and nobody had told Yakov of the guard’s incompetence, not wanting to knock his faith that his staff were doing everything in their power to find his son. 

Yuri wouldn’t have noticed straight away that the two weeks had passed by completely had it not been for the servant who laid out his clothes. On the morning exactly fourteen days after Victor had disappeared, Yuri awoke to find his outfit for the day set on the sofa at the end of his bed as usual, only he knew as soon as he saw it what it meant. Everything was black, from the jacket to the trousers to the shirt. Mourning clothes, they were mourning clothes to mark the end of Yakov’s hope that any sort of ransom note would arrive. From that point forward, the search for Victor stopped being a search for his kidnapper and instead turned in to a search for a corpse. That morning Yuri had put off changing into his clothes for as long as possible, contemplating feigning an illness to stay in his nightshirt all day before realising that it would only give his parents more cause to worry, something they really didn’t need at such a volatile time. 

So he got up and he put on his clothes, black garment by black garment, until he was just a figure of darkness staring at himself blankly in the mirror. His face was pale and contrasted so starkly with the cloth of his jacket that he looked like a spectre, and when he went down to breakfast that morning, he found everybody in a similar state. For once, Yakov was at the table with the rest of them, although there wasn’t a single piece of food on his plate. And for once, he wasn’t the only person decidedly not eating. Mila didn’t have a thing in front of her, and Lilia only had a small glass of water, nothing else. Yuri sat down and plucked a grape from the bunch set out for them, but ended up just rolling it around in his fingers before letting it drop back into the bowl. The thought of eating anything made his stomach lurch; every time he considered picking something up and putting it in his mouth, a violent, bloody image of Victor’s dead body flashed before his eyes. Each time his brother’s imagined fate was something worse – thrown into a river, hanged from a far away tree, poisoned and left in an alley or lying alone in the snow covered in blood. 

On the first morning he wore those dark clothes, Yuri had to excuse himself from the breakfast table. He’d run all the way to the servant’s entrance where nobody would see him, shoved the door open, and made it outside just in time to double over and retch onto the cobblestones. Nothing came up – how could it, when he hadn’t eaten? But that didn’t stop his body from trying its best to expel the imaginary sickness caused by Victor’s death. Victor’s death. His older brother’s death. His brother was gone. 

Days passed in a blur after that. It no longer felt like Yuri was fighting his way through mud, but rather like he had been hit by a carriage and was being dragged along with it, half-conscious. He was vaguely aware of certain things, like when more snow fell or when his cat came running to him to try and get him to interact with her. But he didn’t…participate any more. He’d adopted the same cold detachment from reality that Yakov had even before the mourning period. He rarely ate, only when the pain in his stomach became too great not to, and even then he found himself bringing a lot of it back up into a bucket he’d insisted be kept in his room. He found it increasingly difficult to sleep, because every time he closed his eyes more disgustingly vivid images of Victor’s corpse burned themselves onto the backs of his eyelids. If he’d exhibited behaviour like this at any other time, he was sure Lilia would have called for the doctor, but both his parents were in similar states themselves and he knew nobody was in their right mind to seek help. 

Another week went by. Yuri didn’t take note of anything that happened throughout that week, he remained in his bedroom and said and did nothing. Then one morning, struck by the urge to do something, to try and rectify at least the dark thoughts that were making it impossible for him to rest, he found himself making his way down to the chapel within the palace. It was so early, after another sleepless night, that there was nobody else about in the corridors to question where he was going or what he was doing. Several of the more maternal servants in the palace had started to express concern for his wellbeing to the extent where they often held spoons of soup up to his mouth with their own hands to try and encourage him to eat, and he knew that if they caught him wandering about so early they would no doubt have something to say about it. So he walked briskly, with more energy than he’d displayed for weeks by then, if only for the purpose of getting to the chapel as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. 

Yuri had never been overtly religious. His biological family had been sinners by nature – his mother a whore, in the absence of a better word, and his father a greedy drunkard. His grandfather had been virtuous but hadn’t held any belief in heaven or hell, so the virtue had somewhat gone to waste. Once Yuri had been adopted into the palace he observed the Orthodox faith just like the rest of the royals were required to; placating the Church was one of the most crucial duties of a monarch, Lilia had once told him. If they failed to do that, they could be overthrown by the fear of God itself. He’d been baptised, although much older than most people were when they were accepted into the faith, and before Victor had disappeared they had both been expected to attend regular church services in the palace’s private chapel. But Yuri had never truly believed in it. He’d daydream when being read to from the Bible and he’d let his mind go blank during hymns, singing from memory alone instead of from a place of devotion or sincerity. 

But something was drawing Yuri there now. Perhaps it was the knowledge that although he himself didn’t believe in the power of God to do anything for him, other people did, and it seemed to work well to comfort them. If going to pray could bring him even the smallest semblance of peace, allow him to sleep for even an hour without having nightmares, he would do so gladly. And so he found himself entering the empty chapel, devoid even of a priest considering the early hour and the fact it wasn’t time for a usual service, and walked straight to the very front of the room. For as little as he cared about religion, he had to admit that the chapel was one of his favourite rooms in the palace. It was peaceful, silent, and held a lot of history. The mural on the ceiling was already fading with age but was no less beautiful, and the ornate gold and wood carvings on the pews and crucifixes was stunning. 

Yuri knelt on the floor at the steps leading up to the altar. He didn’t see the point in sitting behind a pew when he was the only one there, and when he didn’t plan on being there long. He had brought with him the black prayer rope that was required of him to own for their regular church services, and he held it in his left hand as he bowed his head and closed his eyes. He didn’t know many prayers off by heart, content as he was to let his mind wander during service, so he settled for silently mouthing the words that he remembered as he moved the rope from knot to knot between his thumb and forefinger, “Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me.” It made sense to him to say that, at least. In a way, he was asking for mercy. Mercy enough for him to sleep a wink, mercy enough for him to eat something and keep the food down. Perhaps it was selfish to think of that first, perhaps he should have prayed for Victor’s soul instead. But Victor had been angelic, everyone had said so – there was no doubt in Yuri’s mind that he was in a good place now. If there was a heaven, he would be there regardless of Yuri’s prayers. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. With his eyes closed and no ticking clocks in the room to preserve the illusion of time passing, he was content to kneel and think and imagine that somebody, maybe, was hearing his thoughts. A small part of him wanted to wait for the priest and attempt to confess his feelings of jealousy towards Victor before he’d disappeared, but before he could bring up the courage to do so, he heard the light tapping of shoe heels on the marble floor behind him. Somebody was walking up the aisle, somebody whose skirts swished against the floor when they walked and who was obviously trying to alert him to their presence. 

Yuri knew as soon as the person knelt beside him that it was Mila. Of course she’d been trying to warn him of her arrival – she was giving him time to compose himself and stop crying if he needed to. But he didn’t, not this time. For once, he was awash with a strange yet welcome sense of calm, and he raised his head to look at her when she arranged her skirts to kneel beside him. 

Before she spoke, she crossed herself and clasped her hands in front of her chest, head bowed and eyes closed for about five seconds. Then she dropped her hands back to her lap, and looked at him plainly. It occurred to him that they hadn’t been this close since the night Victor had vanished. At breakfast they sat at opposite ends of the table, and Yuri kept himself shut away in his room at all times besides meals, so there had been no opportunity for them to talk until now. Yuri felt a brief flash of guilt – losing a cousin was not comparable to losing a brother, but that didn’t mean that Mila hadn’t been hurting. Her black mourning dress and weary expression betrayed that she’d been going through much of the same ordeal as Yuri. “I didn’t know you came here,” she said. Her voice was raspier than he was used to hearing, and he wondered if she’d spent a lot of time crying alone in her bedroom. She wouldn’t be the only one if that were the case. 

Yuri shook his head. “I don’t. Today is the first time I’ve tried it.” 

Mila nodded. “I thought so. I’ve come here a lot over the last three weeks…it’s relaxing. One night I felt so calm here that I fell asleep – it was the only night I’ve had where I didn’t…” She didn’t need to finish the sentence, Yuri knew what she was going to say. The only night where she didn’t have nightmares about Victor. Perhaps he should try sleeping in the chapel, if it were that easy to expel bad dreams and be at peace. The pair of them fell silent for a while, and Mila kept her head lowered as if deep in thought. He supposed that if she’d come to pray, he should stay quiet and not interrupt her. Maybe she believed more in all of this than he did, more than he’d originally thought. More power to her, it seemed. After a while she lifted her head again and took in a shallow breath. “I heard Aunty Lilia talking to her advisors this morning,” she said softly. 

“Oh.” That had to mean something. These days Lilia never woke early. Now that the search for Victor was less urgent on the understanding that he was now a corpse that could not move, she spent her mornings asleep in bed, to limit the amount of time she had to be awake and consciously thinking about her son’s death. So the fact that she was not only up before eight but also speaking to her advisors was significant, meant that something big was coming. Another change, another reason to kick some life into her. 

More silence followed. Yuri really detested the habit among people to remain silent when they clearly had something to say – he wished people would just be blunt, speak their mind, even if they came across as rude it would make everything so much less complicated. “They were talking about you,” she said eventually, and Yuri suddenly took back his previous sentiment and wished she’d kept the information to herself. But she continued, saying more things he didn’t want to hear and didn’t want to think about. “The advisors brought up the matter of succession…with Victor gone, you’re the heir, Yuri. Lilia didn’t seem to be opposed to anything they were saying, I think…plans are being made for you to be prepared for the possibility that one day, you’ll become…”

“Don’t.” 

The word came from Yuri’s mouth in a quick bite. He could taste a strange acidic flavour in his mouth that made him want to vomit, and when he looked down, he saw that the prayer rope had slipped from his fingers and his hands were trembling slightly where they sat on his lap. He couldn’t hear the word ‘Tsar’ or he would surely throw up, right there in the chapel. He couldn’t hear the word ‘heir’ again, or ‘succession’, or anything else that brought to reality his fear of taking Victor’s place in line to the throne. That was never supposed to be his job, he didn’t want it. He couldn’t think about it. 

“Yuri…” Mila’s expression was one of tired, weary pity. She knew his feelings on the matter, he’d confessed them to her enough times when Victor had still been alive. She knew what it would be asking of him to suddenly step up and take that responsibility, however inevitable it was now under the circumstances. 

Yuri shook his head and stood up, getting unsteadily to his feet with the help of a pew to lean on. “I’m going to the lake,” he decided, and turned on his heel to leave the chapel without another word. He didn’t need to worry about Mila following him – if she really did pray every day then she wouldn’t interrupt her routine just to chase him down for a useless conversation about his uncertain future. She knew him well enough to know that she wouldn’t get anything out of him when he was in this state of mind, worked up and confused and upset. 

The lake. He’d said it only as an excuse to get away from Mila, but now that he really considered it, he found himself walking in the direction of the kitchen to pick up his skates. They were still down there from the last time he’d worn them, three days before Victor’s birthday when Mila had broken the news of his surprise present. That had been almost a month ago. Almost a month without his brother…he couldn’t tell if it felt like it had been longer than that, or less time than that. Everything had sort of lost its meaning since Victor had been declared dead. He retrieved his skates from where they were sat by the door, having been polished neatly, and he studiously ignored the larger pair next to them with the gold blades that looked so familiar. He couldn’t dwell on them for too long or else he’d just go straight back up to his room and spend the afternoon sobbing again. 

He decided against wearing a coat. Being out in the frozen air just made it feel more real, just helped him acknowledge the fact that he’d left the palace for once, ventured into reality again. During the past three weeks he’d spent a lot of time wondering how people outside the palace walls were feeling. They would be going about their daily lives likely as if nothing had happened – of course, many of them would feel remorse over the loss of their prince but nowhere near to the same degree as the royals themselves did. Yuri envied them in their ability to continue on as if nothing had happened. Part of him wished it were that simple, while a competing part of him was glad that Victor’s memory lingered. As painful as it was, he decided it would be worse not to think of him at all. 

Makkachin followed him out into the gardens. The dog had moped about the palace just as much as the family, scratching pitifully at Victor’s door and falling asleep in the corridor outside it for servants to trip over in the early hours of the morning when they were still half asleep. Yuri often found him whining and nosing at anything that had once belonged to Victor – boots, jackets, coats – to pick up any lingering scent of him. Now, the poodle lumbered out after Yuri and sat himself on the snowy bank beside the lake while he leaned down to pull on his skates. When he had them laced up, he tested the integrity of the ice with the pick at the end of the blade, then drifted out into the centre of the frozen circle. 

Yuri didn’t have a plan for what he was doing. He started with some lazy figure of eight movements, gliding about effortlessly without having to think about what came next. It felt wrong to be doing it alone – usually when he did this, he’d catch glimpses of Victor in the corner of his eye, the trail of a scarf or the flash of white hair. He was accustomed to having to watch where he was going so he didn’t bump into him; now, with the knowledge that he was the only one on the ice, he spread his arms and allowed himself to slide freely in any direction he wanted. He forced himself into jumps that he hadn’t properly practiced since the year before, he spun and ran until he was breathless, all the while trying to come up with imaginary music in his head to accompany him. There had been several pieces of music Victor had been showing him before he died as possible skating songs. He’d brought Yuri to the ballroom on more than one occasion and made him sit and listen while the orchestra played little bits and pieces of each, asking him which was his favourite, which one he’d like to skate to the most.

Strangely enough, the music he was now imagining was the song he’d actively disliked the first time Victor had shown it to him. He remembered it clearly, because it had required vocal accompaniment, not just instruments. He’d had one of the choir boys from the church in the city come to sing for them, an orchestral sort of song that Yuri had denounced as being too soppy, too romantic for his liking. Victor had tried his best to make Yuri understand it was meant to be about unconditional love – not necessarily romantic, but between any two people who cared for each other. Yuri had still scoffed, had found himself unable to envision what that meant for himself.

Now, he thought he understood. Victor was gone, dead, they hadn’t even been able to find his body to peacefully lay him to rest yet. But did that mean Yuri loved him any less than he had done when he was alive? Of course not. Yuri’s love for his brother transcended death in a way he hadn’t thought would be possible until he experienced it for himself. He would always love Victor, for as long as he lived and through whatever challenges he faced now he was gone. Somehow, the music in his head seemed to fit that sentiment, and he found himself humming it softly to himself as he skated. His hair came loose of the braid that he’d tied it in, falling around his face as the cold air blew it in all directions with his movements. 

He was so caught up in his skating that when he saw the flash of white hair in the corner of his eye, for a split second he felt hope. Yuri’s heart almost stopped and he felt himself automatically wedge the pick of his skate into the ice to bring him to a halt, staring out across the snowy garden at the man who had appeared through the gate. But Victor’s name died on his tongue when he saw the hunched shoulders, the wrinkled brow, the wiry moustache and the thick sack of envelopes dragged behind the figure. Not Victor, no. Just the man delivering their letters. 

Yuri sighed resignedly and raised his hand above his head, hollering over to the man to get his attention. Skating over to the side of the lake, he held his hand out with a week, extremely feeble attempt at a smile. If he was to inherit Victor’s duties as heir, he might as well make a favourable impression with the few civilians he was exposed to, shouldn’t he? “I can take them for you,” he said, once the man had shuffled close enough to hear him. “The path up to the house is long and it’s covered in snow, no sense you making the journey.” 

The old man had kind eyes that reminded him of his grandfather. The way they crinkled at the edges as he smiled, and reached into the sack to withdraw a bundle of letters tied neatly with a ribbon. Yuri caught a glimpse of the other bundles and saw that they were tied with string – it was such a small detail, a treatment the royals got that other people didn’t, and Yuri didn’t know why he fixated on it even for a second. “Very generous of you, your highness,” the old man said. He had a slight accent that made it sound like he wasn’t native to Russia, but had lived there a long time, and Yuri wondered what his story was. “My condolences on the loss of the Prince.”

It was only then that Yuri realised the man himself was wearing mourning black as well. Was everybody in the city dressed that way? He’d never experienced a royal death before, he didn’t know what the circumstances would be. “Thank you,” he said, accepting the letters and nodding his head. “Have a safe journey back to the city.” He watched the old man turn and walk away, watched the slow progress he made through the deep snow until he disappeared before a gathering of trees and vanished out of sight. 

Yuri looked down at the letters. It was probably time for him to go inside anyway, he decided, he didn’t want Yakov or Lilia to worry about his safety if they attempted to find him and he was gone. He was sure they could only take so much before one of them got sick from the stress, and he didn’t want to be the cause of their concern. He skated back to the stone bench beside the lake and sat down to start removing his skates and putting his boots back on. Makkachin sat there diligently to wait for him, his head propped on the edge of the bench with his tongue half out of his mouth. Yuri had never really been a dog person, but he could see why Victor had adored this poodle so much. He was loyal. 

While Yuri laced his boots, he untied the ribbon around the letters and looked each one of them over with a blank expression. Condolence letters, he was sure of it. He didn’t recognise any of the wax seals on the backs of the envelopes, which probably meant they were from royal families in other countries who had never met Victor but to whom word had already spread of Russia’s unfortunate loss. It was only once he reached the last letter in the pile that Yuri froze. 

The handwriting was familiar. More than familiar, it was almost identical to his own, because it had been taught to him by the same tutor as it had been to…Victor. It was Victor’s handwriting, he was sure of it. He didn’t know who the seal belonged to, but he had strong instincts and every fibre of his being was screaming at him that this letter had come from his brother. With the laces still half undone on one of his boots, he abandoned his skates and the other letters by the side of the lake and began to sprint back up towards the palace, clouds of snow flying up in his wake. He could hear Makkachin running behind him, hear the loud panting and thump of paws.

He reached the palace fast and hurled himself through the back doors, wondering where the hell he should begin to look for his parents. Would they still be asleep? Yakov most likely would be, he never rose before noon. He remembered what Mila had told him about Lilia and her advisors, and he dashed up the stairs as fast as his frozen legs could carry him, taking them two by two and occasionally tripping as he missed one. The letter was clutched so tightly in his hand that he was sure it would be creased by the time he delivered it, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“Mama!” he called, as soon as he had the door to the study in sight. “Mama! Mama, Papa!” Yuri didn’t bother to knock before he pushed his way into the room, clearly shocking Lilia, who was sat at her desk with paper in front of her and a quill in her hand. “Mama,” Yuri breathed, rushing over to the desk and dropping the letter in front of her with perhaps a little more force than necessary. “It’s from Victor, I know it is, I’m sure of it! It’s his handwriting, Mama, look!”

Lilia simply stared at him. A drop of ink dripped from the end of the quill and splashed onto the paper beneath it, smudging the last sentence she had written. She didn’t seem to care, didn’t reach for any blotting paper with which to fix the problem. Instead she slowly replaced the quill in its pot of ink, picked up a sharp letter opener from an ornate wooden box to her left, and sliced along the top of the envelope with frighteningly calm precision. Yuri stood there, chest heaving with the effort of having run so fast and so far, waiting to see what would be inside. He didn’t think he could bear it if it wasn’t from Victor, if he’d been wrong about this. 

Lilia unfolded the paper. Spread it out on the desk. Immediately looked to the bottom of the page for a signature, at which point her breath left her in a rush and she leaned back in her chair with a hand clasped over her mouth. Silence. Nothing but agonising silence during which Yuri wanted to rip the letter off the desk and read it for himself, but forced his body to stay put. Eventually, Lilia whispered, “Go and wake your father.” 

“Mama…”

“Now, Yuri.” 

And so Yuri ran again. He ran up another flight of stairs to the master bedroom that Yakov had now returned to, banging on the door several times with his fists before kicking his way inside. Yakov was no longer in bed, instead sat at the dresser seemingly examining the grey pallor of his own skin. He looked up when Yuri barged in, clearly about to deliver some half-hearted scolding about entering uninvited, but stopped when he saw his son’s flushed cheeks and hitching chest. Yuri didn’t say a word, just went to grab Yakov’s arm and drag him off the dresser stool back down the stairs to the study. 

When they entered again, Lilia was pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, and for a moment Yuri’s heart sank. Had he been wrong after all? Was the letter from one of the guards in a far away town, saying they’d found Victor’s body? Or was it a ransom letter, making impossible demands of money even the royals weren’t able to pay? He walked further into the room and sank down on a chair, his legs feeling boneless after all his running. 

Yakov seemed to share many of his same thoughts, approaching his wife’s desk slowly, apprehensively. “Lilia,” he said. His voice was very low, like he didn’t dare hope for what the contents of the letter might be. “Lilia, is it…is he…?” 

Instead of answering in her own words, Lilia picked up the letter carefully and cleared her throat. The room was silent except for the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock, but when Lilia began reading the letter by uttering the words, “Dearest Mother and Father,” it was as though fireworks had exploded within the walls. The noise of sheer relief, almost pained in its intensity, that escaped Yakov’s mouth was nothing short of euphoric. He clutched a hand to his heart and pressed the other to his head, collapsing into a chair with a stream of garbled praises that sounded as though he were sobbing. Yuri himself felt a strange mix of hot and cold all at once – his brother was alive, alive and apparently well enough to write, it was all Yuri had hoped for that past month and everything he had spent the morning praying for. 

Lilia continued in a voice that was evidently strained by emotions that she was doing her best to control. “Dearest Mother and Father. I hope that this letter finds you in good health, and that my absence has not been a cause for too much concern. I am aware that my leaving was sudden, and that I should have offered an explanation before I departed. However, I hope that you will consider my reasoning now, and know that I am happy where I have chosen to be. It is with great pleasure and pride that I can tell you I have been married this past week to Katsuki Yuuri of Japan, in a ceremony witnessed by my dear friend Christophe Giacometti. I can only apologise for how this will affect the plans and preparations you have worked so tirelessly to put in place, and the only balm I can offer to soothe my indiscretion is the knowledge that both Christophe and I are happier this way. Now he is free to marry his betrothed and I am free to love as I choose – and I do love Yuuri, very greatly. I understand that I will have left more questions unanswered than I have addressed in this short letter, but I felt it necessary to write as soon as I was able to reassure you of my continued safety and contentment in the life I am now leading. I beg of you to forgive me for my rash actions, know that I am safe and well, and that my love for you all has not and will not weaken for as long as I am away. Your loving son, Victor.” 

The letter was passed from Lilia’s hands to Yakov’s, so he could check the signature and verify its authenticity. He offered it to Yuri, but Yuri shook his head firmly, staring at the rug on the floor. He was vaguely aware of Yakov’s tears of relief, hurried words exchanged back and forth between his parents, but he could hardly pay any attention to them. Victor wasn’t dead, he hadn’t been kidnapped, but he had abandoned him. Knowing the mess he would leave behind, knowing the responsibilities that would fall on Yuri’s shoulders when he was so entirely unprepared for them, Victor had willingly chosen to abandon him and run away in pursuit of his own pleasure. Yuri saw red, and before he even knew what he was doing, he was standing up and shoving his way out of the study. Part of him expected one of his parents to call out to him, but of course they were too preoccupied with their rejoicing to notice he’d gone.

Yuri started running again and didn’t stop until he was in his room and screaming into his pillow, a sickening blend of relief and pure, unadulterated anger swirling in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	6. The Year of 1762

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: suicide is briefly mentioned towards the end. Yuri doesn't personally entertain the idea, but there is some misunderstanding between him and Mila about something that happens, hence the reference to suicide.

The final days of January passed by without any fanfare. Yakov was in the brightest mood that Yuri had seen him in for an entire month, despite the fact that Victor wasn’t actually physically with them, and Lilia had regained a sense of calm and composure that she’d been lacking ever since Victor had gone missing. Mila had brightened to, cooing that maybe once Victor returned – she said it as though it were a sure thing, something that was guaranteed to happen – they could hold a belated ceremony for his marriage and celebrate once again like they had done for his birthday. Yuri didn’t want to think about it, he didn’t want to remember that night because it had been that night when everything went wrong.

The final days of January passed by without any fanfare. And Yuri didn’t realise at the time how much he should have appreciated that quiet reprieve from the stress of the past month, and the months that were to come.

 

* * *

 

**WINTER 1762**

 

February was when everything in Yuri’s life was turned upside down, picked up by the ankles like a disobedient child and shaken until nothing made sense any more. It was during the first week of February that he was called into Lilia’s study one morning, the sky grey and overcast outside the windows. Yuri had never liked Februarys; the ice had almost always melted by then, or at least become too thin to skate on, and the cobblestones surrounding the palace were covered in a dangerous mix of water and snow which coalesced into a beige slush that was impossible not to slip on. Festivities were over and done with as well – Victor’s birthday, which had always been an exciting staple in the earlier part of the season, and then Orthodox Christmas in January – leaving behind a dull, cold stretch of days where nothing fun happened and everybody was just waiting for the first signs of spring.

Given Yuri’s predisposition towards February, he should have known when he walked into Lilia’s study that morning that the news she was delivering wouldn’t be anything good. Both she and Yakov were there, on one sofa together for once instead of spread out behind the desk or on armchairs. That meant they wanted to explain something to him not just as leaders of the country, but also as parents, and that in turn meant that whatever they were going to say was going to affect him personally. He proceeded with caution as he walked into the room and heard the guard close the door behind him, and Lilia gestured for him to sit down on the sofa opposite them. They’d left him the one closest to the fire, clearly trying to butter him up by making sure he was comfortable.

There was a tea tray on the low table between them, too, and when Yuri looked more closely at it he saw that it was full of all his favourites. There was a small china jug of milk, since Yuri never took his tea black, and the little bowl beside it was full of plenty of sugar cubes, as Yuri flatly refused to drink it without excessive amounts of sugar. The plates on the tray also held some of his favourite accompanying treats when he had his tea – one held biscuits made with honey and one held fresh cream buns with strawberries on top. Yuri ignored everything, however, deciding he wouldn’t let them sway his opinion like that before he even knew what they had to say. So he simply sat on the sofa, posture straight and proper like he’d been taught, and waited.

“Have some tea, Yuri.” Lilia was trying, she really was.

Yuri’s voice was tight and clipped when he replied, “I’m fine, thank you.”

Lilia and Yakov looked at each other before they looked at him, and Yuri realised his mother was holding something in her hand, a sheet of paper. For a moment he wondered if perhaps they had more news about Victor, and he felt an icy shudder run over his body. He hadn’t thought about his brother at all in the past week since they’d received his letter, knowing that if he allowed himself to dwell on it for too long he’d become so angry and hot-headed he’d break something. But the seal on the envelope was one he recognised well, even from across the room and half-obscured by Lilia’s fingers – it was a letter from France.

“Thank you for coming to speak with us, Yuri,” Lilia began, as though he somehow had a choice in the matter. The guard had come to his bedroom door personally to march him down to the study, so there had been absolutely no point in him resisting it. “We understand that everything has been…confusing, since we received news of Victor last week.” Well, she had that right. Advisors and diplomats and ambassadors had been in and out of the palace every day at all hours, more than there had been even when war had first broken out. “But now that things are a little more settled, it’s important that we discuss what this now means for you.”

Yuri blinked, looking back and forth between his mother and father. He didn’t have anything to say to that, because a part of him knew what was coming and didn’t want to hurry on with that particular conversation any faster than they were already. This was what he’d been dreading ever since Victor had left, and now it was happening.

“You are not yet of age, so everything we have put in place that we will tell you today will not take effect until your eighteenth birthday,” Yakov said, and Yuri was a little surprised to hear him speak. He’d been relatively silent now that Victor was gone, and even when his brother had been around, he didn’t speak to Yuri much. “But for the sake of building stability until then, we have decided to inform you of our plans now. You will have time to process them, prepare yourself, and be ready for when you reach adulthood.”

“As I’m sure you know,” Lilia continued. “In the absence of your older brother, the duty of inheritance falls to you. I know this will not come as a surprise to you, you are well aware of how the monarchy functions and you know that for the good of the people and for the good of this family, it is your responsibility to step up and claim your right to the throne.” She was fingering the letter in her hands in a way that could be mistaken for anxiousness, if somebody saw it who didn’t know Lilia and didn’t know how strong her will was. But the way in which she held it told Yuri that something in that letter was extremely delicate, that she was about to say something that might cause Yuri to explode. “However,” she pressed on slowly, choosing her words with the utmost care, “Your brother’s duties extended beyond functioning as an heir to the throne. Before his…indiscretion with Katsuki Yuuri, Victor was engaged to be married to Christophe Giacometti, the Prince of Switzerland, after Christophe ascended to the throne and became King. His father is unfortunately ill and is not expected to live much longer, and so the wedding was going to be postponed until Christophe was securely in power. However now, of course, we know that Christophe was a witness at Victor’s marriage to Katsuki and he was clearly in support of your brother’s decision to take him as a husband. So this leaves us in a difficult position; we had hoped to form a strong trade and diplomatic link with Switzerland through this union.”

Yuri’s blood ran cold. He felt like his veins were turning to ice, and for a moment, he felt the world tip sideways. A little worried that he might actually faint, he reached out with trembling fingers and poured himself a small cup of tea, dropping in two sugar cubes which he practically stabbed with his spoon until they dissolved before taking a long gulp of the now lukewarm drink. “What are you saying, Mama?” he asked quietly, praying to God that he misunderstood what she was saying. “You’re going to replace Victor with me? You expect me to marry Christophe Giacometti?” He’d had no idea that Victor had been betrothed to someone, his brother had never once told him. Yuri had been under the impression that Victor had no friends from other countries, especially not a fiancé.

Lilia shook her head with a small sigh. “No,” she said, and Yuri felt his shoulders sag with relief. “If Victor’s letter is to be believed, Christophe has followed your brother’s example and found himself a husband on his own. No doubt somebody from his own country, as we have not received word from any other monarchs about an international union. Besides, Christophe would always have been a better prospect for Victor than for you – he is already twenty-five years old, so by the time you reached eighteen he would be twenty-nine, and your father and I both agree the age difference is too great.”

Yuri still couldn’t relax. Lilia’s tone suggested she wasn’t done talking, and he knew there was a ‘but’ coming very soon. He wouldn’t be let off from this duty that Victor had apparently been willing to undertake before Katsuki Yuuri had entered the picture, especially not when he was younger than Victor and therefore more of a youthful prospect for families looking to marry off their sons into royalty. The thought made him feel sick, his life and betrothal being discussed as if it were foreign strategy. “Who is the letter from?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as calm and collected as possible but failing miserably.

There was a pause, then Lilia reached across the table and held the envelope out to him. “It’s for you, actually,” she murmured, in a voice that sounded as though she were already trying to calm Yuri down from the tantrum he was inevitably about to throw. “Once we discovered Christophe is no longer an option, we reached out to the royals in France. Their son Jean-Jacques is nineteen years old and a strong, healthy young man who they believe could make an excellent match for you. Unfortunately he is currently away in the Americas, fighting the British for colonial rights over one of their Canadian territories. But we believe a man with a soldier’s integrity would surely treat you well, which is of course something we took into consideration when finding a partner for our son.”

Yuri didn’t reply. He let the room go silent as he slowly broke the wax seal on the envelope and opened it, fingers shaking horribly. The grandfather clock ticking matched with the too-fast pace of his heartbeat, and sounded much too loud and close all of a sudden. The letter was written on thick, creamy-coloured paper in an elegant font, although it was dotted in the corner with an ink blot as if something had jogged the quill suddenly and sent spatters of black flying across the page. It was addressed at the very top to ‘Yuri Plisetsky of Russia’, a title he wasn’t used to reading when attached to his own name, because it often didn’t matter to people where he was from. Victor had always been the one to be referred to as ‘Victor Nikiforov of Russia’ because he was the one who represented the country, he was the one who would one day become Tsar and rule, so he was the one who needed that title. Yuri swallowed a thick lump in his throat and slowly read over the letter in his head, not wanting Lilia and Yakov to know what it said just yet.

 

_Yuri Plisetsky of Russia,_

_It has come to my attention that arrangements have been made for our marriage, on the occasion of your eighteenth birthday. While a meeting is impossible now, with myself away at war and yourself not yet of age, I am confident that when the time comes I will be a most respectable choice of husband. I hope that you look forward to our introduction._

_Yours,_

_Jean-Jacques Leroy, Dauphin of France_

_P.S – I apologise for the ink blot. A cannon was set off very close to my camp and it startled me._

 

Yuri folded the letter neatly once again and slid it back into its envelope, then set it down on the table with a surprising amount of composure. The calm before the storm, one might say. It had been a strange experience – so formal a letter to read from the man you would one day be expected to marry, so impersonal and distant. At the tender age of just fourteen years old, it was impossible for Yuri to comprehend the idea of being somebody’s husband, and so he simply…wouldn’t. “I can’t marry him,” he said, voice even and expression neutral.

Lilia and Yakov blinked and looked at each other, clearly attempting to have a silent conversation about how to handle this development. They’d obviously been expecting Yuri to immediately fly off the handle, to scream and shout and throw the books off the shelves and break the globe that set on the desk. They’d been expecting a whirlwind and instead they were met with a brick wall. As delicately as she could, Lilia reached out and laid her hand over her son’s, where it rested on his knee. “The arrangements have been made, Yuri,” she told him, her voice gentle yet firm. “Nothing will be done about them until you reach eighteen, of course, but it is important that you prepare yourself now so when the time comes, you can bring pride to Russia when you go to Versailles.”

Go to Versailles? Yuri didn’t want to go to Versailles. He didn’t want to go anywhere near France, he’d never had the desire to see it and especially not to live there. He didn’t want the decadent lifestyle he’d heard that they led, he didn’t want to spend his days choosing fabric for his clothes and eating ridiculously perfumed foods and burning through money like firewood. “I don’t want to marry him, Mama,” he said again, as though she simply hadn’t heard him the first time. “I won’t. I don’t know him.” There was an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice, as the realisation that he couldn’t beg his way out of this started to become evident.

Lilia squeezed his hand gently. “You’ll get to know him, Yuri,” she assured him. “We can arrange meetings before your birthday, if you like, to acquaint you before the wedding. We aim to make this as easy for you as possible, Yuri, you must understand that.” It was a lie. It was a bold-faced lie, of course they didn’t want to make it easy for him. The easy way out would be to let him live his life as normal until he reached eighteen, and only then start to prepare him to take over the throne. Lilia was in good health and showed no signs of abdication, there was no need for all of this to be thrust upon him yet. He needed time, he needed what remained of his childhood while he still had it.

Yuri stood up. He couldn’t count the number of times he had run from that study in the past month or so, he couldn’t count the number of times he’d been forced to hear something he didn’t want to know. Everything was happening so fast and he needed it all to stop, to at least slow down, so he could get his bearings. “I won’t marry him,” he said again, this time much more firmly. His hands clenched into useless fists by his sides and his face twisted itself into a scowl that betrayed he was on the verge of tears. “You can’t make me, you can’t.”

Yakov stood up with him, and the realisation of how serious the situation really was hit him like a punch to the gut. “We can and we will, Yuri,” he said, his voice hard and devoid of any emotion. “Why, are you going to tell me you’re like your brother? Is there somebody else more deserving of your betrothal than the man we have chosen for you? You have a duty now, a responsibility. Do not disappoint us by showing yourself to be unwilling to do what is required of you. You cannot hide behind Victor any more, this is your time to show us that you can do as you are told and make us proud.”

It was all becoming too much for Yuri to bear. Yakov’s firm voice and Lilia’s unforgiving expression and the heat of the fire against his back, and the sight of that letter still sat on the table in front of him. He turned and walked to the door briskly, his back ramrod straight and his eyes focused directly ahead of him. No matter what, it was undeniable that he had to be strong now. Whether that meant playing his parents’ game or finding a way to subvert it, he had to be strong for his own sake. If they no longer considered him a child and could so easily push him into the throes of adulthood, then he could no longer allow himself to react as a child and throw tantrums to get his way. He had to be better than them at their own tactics – if diplomacy was now his only option to save himself, he would have to master it.

“Yuri.” Lilia’s voice stopped him before he could get the door open, although he didn’t turn around to look at her. “Your brother did not intend for this to happen, I am sure. Do not resent him for his choice.”

Yuri pulled the door out of his way, and just before it swung shut on the study behind him he muttered, “I have no brother.”

 

* * *

 

 

**SPRING 1762**

 

Despite Lilia’s assurance that Yuri’s fifteenth would be celebrated with similar enthusiasm to Victor’s twenty-seventh, Yuri awoke on the morning of his birthday to find nothing out of the ordinary. He wasn’t the least bit surprised, and he took his time rising from his bed with the knowledge that he wasn’t keeping anybody waiting at a breakfast feast downstairs. His clothes had been set out for him as usual by one of the servants, and there were three small gifts set there as well, only one of them wrapped.

Two of the presents were quite clearly from Yakov and Lilia. One was an elegant, hand-painted scroll that, when he unrolled it, he saw contained a detailed family tree of the French royal family. It began at the top with the oldest Kings and Queens in the lineage, then ended right at the very bottom with a small portrait of his future husband. He was handsome enough, with black hair and bold eyebrows and the corner of his mouth upturned in what looked like a little smirk, although he supposed that could have simply been a liberty taken by the artist. Either way, Yuri felt nothing when he looked at it. His heart didn’t surge and he didn’t feel like singing out with love for him like all those ridiculous romance novels suggested would happen when you first laid eyes on the love of your life, and he found himself rolling the scroll back up and tucking it on top of his bookshelf so he didn’t have to look at it again. He supposed that at the very least, it could come in useful if he didn’t somehow find a way out of this marriage and was actually required to learn about the family he would be joining.

The second present was a leather-bound book on the history of France. At a glance, it seemed to detail everything from military history to the history of fashion and culture. There were chapters about the construction of the palace at Versailles, French colonial victories, and pioneers in French art and literature. Once again, none of it particularly interested Yuri. Although his fluency in French was good, there were a number of words that he was still unable to read due to lack of practice – when, in the Russian palace, did he ever have occasion to speak French? – and he found that he set the book on the shelf furthest away from his bed, which he reserved for the books that he never really intended to pick up. Encyclopaedias and Bibles and other books that he found boring went on that shelf, and now the French history book too.

The final present was wrapped neatly in emerald-green paper and tied with a black ribbon. There was no card attached, and Yuri carefully unwrapped it, assuming it was from Mila since she was the only one left in the palace who might want to give him something. Instead he was met with a box of chocolates, the ornate gold lettering on the lid proudly describing them as ‘ _Confiserie artisanale Suisse_.’ Swiss artisan confectionary. Yuri didn’t even bother opening it to look at them, he simply took the box, wrapping and all, and dropped it onto the burning logs in his fireplace. It made the room smell nice for half an hour or so, before everything burned away and he was left with nothing.

He didn’t dwell on it. In truth, Yuri had been expecting the day to pass by as normal, so he supposed it was something to have even been given the French book and scroll. Breakfast was as anticipated, a regular meal that consisted of slightly too well-done toast and an egg for him to dip it in. He ate alone for the most part, before Mila came in with an apologetic look on her face and sat down with him so he could at least have some company for the end of his meal. Yuri didn’t mind either way, he would have been content to sit by himself. Even though he’d only found out about his future marriage a month ago, Yuri was already so different. A lot of the youthful innocence had drained from his face and never returned, and there was a hard edge to his eyes now that he carried with him no matter what he was doing, from when he first woke up in the morning to when he went to sleep at night. It was something dark and determined and guarded – he was through with letting people in, the only way for him to help himself was to rely on himself alone.

Yuri’s fifteenth birthday played out like any normal day. His new tutor came to the palace at noon as he always did, with the express intention of teaching him French to the point where he spoke it like a true native. He wasn’t an idiot, and he noticed that the tutor didn’t speak the language the same way as he and Victor’s old professors had – no, this man had a distinct accent, and was teaching him to speak with that same lilt to his voice and throwing in new words that were specific to the dialect of Versailles. With three full years ahead of him during which he would continue to learn, Yuri knew that by the time Yakov and Lilia sent him away to France, there would be no way of distinguishing him linguistically from a person who had lived there their entire lives.

He didn’t sleep that night. His eyes were fixed on the wall opposite his bed, wide open and hardly blinking, until the clock downstairs chimed out midnight. Yuri had slid out of bed at that point and wandered over to the fireplace, where the moonlight had landed on a tiny scrap of emerald paper that had been untouched by the flames that had now died out in the hearth. He reached down and plucked it up, going to sit in his window seat where he set about ripping the paper into tiny, tiny pieces with his fingers. When he was done, he unlatched the window and held his hand out into the cool night air, letting the breeze carry the pieces away across the courtyard.

 

* * *

 

 

**SUMMER 1762**

 

French lessons continued. As the year pressed on, history and Geography lessons were added to the tutor’s repertoire and Yuri found himself learning more about France than he had ever expected or wanted to. It wasn’t that Yuri had no interest in such subjects, because he had always appreciated his schooling and understood how privileged he was to have it, but it made it bittersweet when it was all so focused on the homeland of the man he was being forced to marry. He was told about their constitution, the country’s international position, rules of the French court – some of which sounded ridiculously overwhelming. One rule said that the members of court had the right to enter the bedroom of the royals and dress them for the day themselves with their own hands, which Yuri found insanely invasive and unnecessary. He was perfectly capable of dressing himself, he didn’t need an audience of ten or twenty nobles to do it for him.

Because of the stifling heat both inside and outside the palace, nobody really had the energy to force Yuri into doing much in the way of preparation during the summer months. On more than one occasion, the tutor arrived at the palace only to find that Yuri had not yet dragged himself out of bed, and Lilia simply conceded that her son wouldn’t cooperate that day and sent the tutor away with a small sum of money for his troubles. There were also entire weeks where Yuri would claim that he couldn’t focus because of the heat, and Yakov, lacking the energy to fight with him about it, waved a hand and told him to ‘please himself.’ And please himself he did.

When he was able to secure these precious weeks of solitude, he spent his time in the palace gardens, hidden away deep between the trees where he could be alone with his thoughts. It gave him time to think, time to concoct some sort of plan as to how to get out of the marriage that he was so rapidly heading towards. He’d thought of several options so far, but none of them seemed quite right. One option had been running away, since it clearly seemed to work, but upon greater reflection he realised that it would be impossible for him. He had nowhere to go, no other family ready to accept him in and finance him once ties with Yakov and Lilia were cut, so he would end up on the streets faster than he could get out of the city. Another option had been to secretly write to Jean-Jacques and pretend to be Lilia, breaking off the marriage on his own. But of course, the French court wouldn’t simply accept that sitting down, and would insist on further correspondence to try and convince Lilia not to stop the wedding. So Lilia would find out, he would be in insurmountable trouble, and would likely be denied access to a quill and paper again for months. Not that he had anybody to write to anyway, but he didn’t like the idea of that particular freedom being restricted.

Yuri sighed, leaning back against the rough bark of one of the trees. He was sat down on a patch of soft grass out in the woods that surrounded the palace, thinking so hard that a small line appeared between his eyebrows. It was only when he tilted his head forward again that his eyes landed on a small cluster of mushrooms around the base of a tree a little further away from him. He crawled closer and carefully plucked one from the ground, pinching its stem and managing to take half the root up with it. He held it up to the light that was filtering in through the trees, and turned it from side to side to get a better look at it. He was by no means an expert on things like this, but he knew that ingesting certain types of mushroom could make somebody ill, very ill. Once, when they had been younger, Georgi had found a wild mushroom and eaten a little too much of it, and for the rest of the day had been confined to his room following a series of…embarrassing accidents.

There were several types of mushrooms in the woods, and Yuri walked around plucking up a couple of each, holding them carefully in his palm so he didn’t crush them. Perhaps it was an idiotic plan, but in the heat of the moment and in his increasing desperation for a solution to his problem, it made sense to him to try it. Surely, the Prince of France would not want a weak husband, so why not make himself sick? It wasn’t uncommon for diseases to manifest in people whose conditions during childhood had been poor – cases had been seen of adults developing all sorts of lung problems as a result of working in factories as children, so it wouldn’t be too great of a strain on the imagination to assume that Yuri’s history in the workhouse had made him sick now. If he could convince his parents that the sickness would be reoccurring – begin the façade now and keep it going for the following years to come, perhaps every couple of months – then they would have to reconsider their choice to send him away. By the time he reached eighteen, they would believe that the sickness was on-going and of course, no doctor would be able to diagnose him, so plans of marriage would start to seem hopeless.

Yuri took his collection of mushrooms to the palace library, hiding them inside his jacket in case he ran into anyone on his way there. He searched the large shelves for a book that could help him identify which one he should eat, because although his plan included making himself sick, he knew he couldn’t push his body so far that he almost died. He had to be smart in doing this, he had to be careful. He eventually found a book that provided sketched illustrations of each type of mushroom, along with their names and their effects if ingested. Most of the ones he’d picked in the woods turned out to be harmless, and he threw them onto the fire to hide the evidence. One type appeared to be potentially fatal, so he threw that away too, very fast. Eventually he was left with one option – _Clitocybe Rivulosa_ , also known as the Fool’s Cap mushroom. The description listed salivation, sweating and sickness under its effects, and so Yuri took the two mushrooms he had picked and carried them to his room.

In an attempt to make his lie more believable, he refused dinner that evening when a servant came to get him. Once she’d gone away, he took a deep breath and ate both mushrooms, gagging around the disgusting taste and texture as he forced himself to swallow them. They were vile, and he quickly drank down a tall glass of water to take the aftertaste out of his mouth. He then lay down in bed waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. After an hour or so, symptoms began to manifest themselves one by one, and after an hour and a half, he was in agony. His whole body was drenched in sweat and his face was simultaneously deathly pale and flushed red on the cheeks, and his body was trembling involuntarily. His stomach felt like somebody had skewered it with a hot poker and was twisting it slowly round his stomach, and it was taking every ounce of his concentration not to throw up on the floor.

Eventually, blessedly, a maid came in to check on him. The poor woman had likely been expecting a mild cold as the reason for his rejection of dinner, and she was instead met with a prince who looked as though he were at death’s door. She immediately gasped and fetched a pail from beside his bath, positioning it by the side of Yuri’s bed, and he leaned over straight away to expel the contents of his stomach into it violently. His throat burned with the acidic taste, and even once he was done throwing up, his head fell back onto his pillow and he continued to drool uncontrollably. The maid ran downstairs at the speed of light to find Lilia, and within minutes his mother was sat on the side of the bed pressing her cool palm to his forehead, shushing him in a quiet voice.

In a strange, twisted way, Yuri realised that a side-benefit of his plan would be the care he would receive from his parents. Even if it took sickness to get it, it meant that they would sit with him and show some sort of concern for his wellbeing, as Lilia was doing now. She was stroking his matted hair back from his forehead and murmuring comforting words, although Yuri was too delirious to make out exactly what was being said. He thought he heard the words ‘doctor’ and ‘help’, but he wasn’t entirely confident.

Sure enough, the royal doctor was summoned to his bedroom and everybody was cleared away for him to work. Yuri was poked and prodded, the doctor felt his stomach and ribcage – which made Yuri turn to the side and retch into the pail once again – and his pupils were examined along with his tongue and throat. Eventually the doctor declared that he was unsure what was wrong with the prince, that the symptoms appeared to resemble a body’s reaction to poison, which was of course impossible considering Yuri had rejected dinner and eaten the exact same food as Yakov and Lilia during lunch. The doctor promised to return at any point should Yuri’s condition worsen, and then he left, and Yuri was once again alone.

He fell asleep after a while longer, physically and mentally exhausted by the ordeal. Although his plan seemed to be working so far, he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to keep it up for the two and a half remaining years until his marriage to Jean-Jacques. Could he honestly put his body through this torture every couple of months for the sake of maintaining the lie? But at the same time, he’d done it once now, he’d already subjected himself to the pain and he felt as though he’d come too far to simply give up. As it turned out, however, the decision had already been made for him.

When he next woke up, it was to the feeling of another hand running through his hair. Decisively female, if the thin fingers were anything to go by, but the absence of wrinkles told him it wasn’t his mother any more. When he opened his eyes, he saw Mila sitting beside him, staring down at him with a deep frown written across her face. It took a moment for his gaze to focus and his vision to stop swimming, but eventually he was able to look at her properly, and she did not look happy.

Yuri took a moment to evaluate how he was feeling. His throat felt dry and rough and his head was throbbing uncomfortably, but aside from that, the stabbing pain in his stomach had disappeared along with his urge to vomit. Thank God, he was sure he had nothing left in his belly to bring up at that point, let alone the energy to actually do it. Mila had a fan in her other hand and was gently waving it above his face, which he had to admit was nice, considering the sweat that still lingered on his skin and the overwhelming heat of the room. He didn’t know how she was sat there in a corset and full skirt without fainting. “We need to stop having conversations like this,” he rasped, and instantly regretted it, because he’d vowed to himself not to think of the night Victor had disappeared ever again.

Mila closed the fan with a sharp ‘snap’ and removed her hand from Yuri’s hair. “How can you joke about this?” she breathed, and she sounded so heartbroken that Yuri was awash with a fresh feeling of confusion. He got the terrible impression that he and Mila had very different understandings of what was going on, and he braced himself for whatever she was about to say. “I told Uncle Yakov, Yuri, I had to. He has the right to know. Honestly, how could you be so…so _selfish_? After everything he’s been through, losing your brother…”

“I don’t have a brother,” Yuri interrupted, struggling to push himself up into a sitting position before rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes. “What did you tell him, Mila? What are you talking about?”

A strange, disbelieving laugh escaped Mila’s mouth, and she shook her head. “That you tried to kill yourself, Yuri!” She said it in a loud whisper, even though they were alone in the room, and her shoulders sagged sadly. “I saw you leaving the library just before I went in there. And you left your book open on the reading table – poison mushrooms, Yuri, really? I know these past few months haven’t been easy on you, they haven’t been easy on anybody, but what on Earth would possess you to try and take your own life? You are so young, Yuri, don’t you realise that? How could you even _consider_ …”

“Mila.” Yuri’s eyes were blown wide, and he was opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He groaned and buried his face in his hands, wanting to curl up in a ball and disappear through the floor to avoid whatever the hell the consequences of this would turn out to be. How did he even begin to make this right? “Mila, dear God, I wasn’t trying to kill myself!” He looked up at her wildly, wanting to grab her by the shoulders and shake her senseless. “I was trying to make myself sick, that’s all, just sick.” He sighed and hung his head, realising that there was no way out of this without a full explanation. “Mother and father are making me marry Jean-Jacques Leroy, of France.”

Silence descended upon the room. Mila paused in her ranting and her expression changed from anger to shock to something resembling surprise and sympathy all at the same time. “Oh,” she whispered, folding her hands in her lap around the fan.

Yuri nodded, chewing his lower lip and looking at her in earnest. “I thought that if I could make myself sick now, and keep doing it every two or three months, there would be no way of going ahead with the wedding once I turn eighteen. After all, how can they marry me off when I have an apparently incurable, recurring illness that may or may not affect those around me? They couldn’t risk me bringing it to the French court.” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, closing his eyes tightly. “I thought it would work. I thought I could do it, it was the only option I hadn’t already thought of that might actually help me stop this.” He sounded so hopeless, so helpless, that Mila reached out to stroke his hair again. He allowed her to do so without complaint. “But now father thinks I wanted to end my life, which wasn’t my intention.”

“I’ll set him straight,” Mila promised softly, already making to rise from the bed. “I’ll tell him you didn’t mean to kill yourself, I’ll explain what you were doing – you were just upset…”

“Don’t,” Yuri muttered. He shifted so he was lying down again, his joints protesting as he manoeuvred himself onto his side. He stared at the wall opposite his bed with blank, cold eyes. “If my plan didn’t work, at least let him know how miserable I am that they’re doing this to me.” He knew Yakov and Lilia would be insufferable if they thought he was suicidal. They would put so many guards around him that he could barely move without bumping into a uniform, they would have people watching him constantly, and any hope of stopping the marriage would fly away from him forever. But even if Mila went and told them the truth now, what more was there for him to try? He’d exhausted all of his options. Like it or not, the marriage was now certain.

 

* * *

 

 

**WINTER 1762/1763**

 

Yuri’s prediction had been entirely correct. Once he was well enough to leave his bedroom, two guards were assigned to watch over him at all hours of the day, even stand outside his bedroom at night in case they heard anything out of sorts from inside. He was no longer allowed into the woods for fear that he’d once again try to find something poisonous, and he wasn’t allowed to practice hunting or anything else that involved him being around sharp objects. The four posters around his bed were even removed by a carpenter, in case he tried to hang himself from them. Yuri thought it must have been awfully morbid for his parents, having to anticipate all the ways he might attempt to kill himself and make adjustments accordingly, but a childish and bitter part of him was glad. Let them feel bad, let them feel guilty and think they’d pushed him to such extreme lengths. He would accept the restriction of his freedoms if it meant that the message was conveyed about just how unhappy he really was.

That December Yakov insisted on holding a dinner in Victor’s honour, celebrating his birthday even in his absence. Yuri was numb to the injustice by that point, and didn’t even give a second thought to the fact that a celebration was being thrown for a man who wasn’t even at the palace when his own birthday had passed by so unceremoniously. The dinner was open to guests from noble families around St Petersburg, and a collection of gifts were assimilated since everybody assumed they were still in contact with Victor. The food served was some of Victor’s favourite dishes, and Yuri was surprised to see one Japanese option among the many other traditional Russian offerings. Nobody quite knew how to act, and it was left to Yakov to inspire conversation around the table as if there were nothing unusual about the evening, as if Victor were sat at the head of the table and just remaining quiet.

At the end of the night, once everyone had gone home, Yakov stopped Yuri before his guards could take him away to bed. In a bid to cheer his youngest son up a little, he told him that he could have his pick of any of Victor’s presents that he wanted. After all, Yakov told him, there was nobody else to take them and it was silly for them to go to waste. It was an olive branch of sorts, coupled with a restrained and uncomfortable smile, and Yuri simply nodded before allowing himself to be escorted to his bedroom. He ignored the presents completely, and after two days, they were cleared away.

 

* * *

 

 

**SPRING 1763**

 

Jean-Jacques was supposed to come to Russia for Yuri’s birthday. Following a series of letters exchanged back and forth between Lilia and the King of France, it was agreed upon that the prince would spend a week there to become acquainted with his future husband, present a number of – presumably extravagant – French gifts, and start the tedious process of building a stable relationship between the two countries.

Preparations had been made, and a tailor came to the palace to fit Yuri for new clothes that were decidedly more Western European than anything he’d ever worn before. The jacket was a shade of pale pink that Yuri personally found hideous, and the waistcoat beneath it had ridiculous vertical stripes down the front. On the day of Jean-Jacque’s arrival, Yuri had been made to sit still for hours while a servant used a metal tool heated up over the fire to carefully curl his whole head of hair tightly. Not only did the contraption seem dangerous, but the process also took a disproportionately long amount of time for the end result, which Yuri thought made him look more like Makkachin and less like the French nobleman he was supposed to resemble. There had even been suggestions of powdering his face to make it even paler than his already milky skin tone, but Yakov had firmly drawn a line, saying what they’d already done was more than enough.

As it turned out, none of it had been necessary. When a carriage eventually rolled through the gates of the palace later that day, the man who emerged was not Jean-Jacques Leroy, but rather a very tired looking servant about twenty years his senior who told him in broken Russian that the Dauphin regretted he was unable to attend the palace due to the sudden and unavoidable call back to the frontlines of the war. It was being rumoured that the war was dying out, on its last legs, and Yuri could tell Lilia felt a little snubbed at having her invitation rejected in favour of what were now essentially peace talks.

Yuri showed no remorse at the absence of his fiancé. Instead he was pleased to go back to his bedroom, brush the curls from his hair until they were nothing more than waves, strip himself of the offending clothing and slide back into bed to sleep for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	7. Journey to Almaty

The war ended later that spring in 1763. Lilia broke the news over breakfast as though it were nothing, and then in the evening they had a cake made by the chefs to celebrate, along with a couple of bottles of champagne. The war had been a strange, odd thing for Yuri to wrap his head around. It had been a drain on Russia’s resources and military, and it had gone on for almost a decade, and yet it had done very little to affect him personally. He’d been too young to go and fight, and Yakov had refused to send Victor into any danger despite the fact it was rather…improper for neither of the royal sons to go and play their part. And so the family had outsourced instead, imploring the monarchs of the countries over which they had control to send their own sons in their place. Yuri wasn’t proud of it – had he been old enough, had he been given the choice to go and fight, he would have.

It was from one of these countries that a letter arrived, on a warm morning in summer. The seal on the back of the envelope belonged to the king of Kazakhstan, Yuri knew that much from the extensive correspondence that was exchanged back and forth between Russia and her neighbour. It seemed a little crumpled, as though it had been sat at the bottom of a bag or a box for a while before being delivered. When Lilia opened it and skimmed over the words and date quickly, she sighed and placed a hand to her forehead.

“What does he want?” Yakov asked, clearing meaning the King. They were all sat at breakfast, Yuri poking at his eggs with a bored expression on his face while Mila tried to coax him into eating something, and Lilia sipping a glass of fresh-pressed orange juice. Yakov had the most on his plate, a hearty breakfast of eggs and toast and sausage and pastry. “Not money, surely.”

Lilia shook her head and passed the letter across the table to her husband. “It’s an invitation,” she murmured, finishing her juice and patting her mouth delicately with her serviette. “It seems Prince Otabek has returned safely from war and the King plans to throw a ball in his honour. I’ll admit, I was under the impression that the boy hadn’t been so fortunate – it was him who went missing for a short time during battle, was it not?” That had been a difficult time. Lilia had been trying to focus on the war effort at large but there was a certain degree of guilt to be felt when the son of one of your allies was nowhere to be found.

Mila frowned and looked up from where she was pressing a piece of toast against Yuri’s mouth. “How old is he?” she asked. “I thought he was only my age, he was at war so young?”

“You are an adult, Mila,” Lilia reminded her, with a firm yet understanding look. Mila was right, eighteen was very young to be thrust into a warzone, but it was something that had to be done. It was Otabek’s willingness to go and fight that had kept the Russian princes away from the frontlines. “Eighteen is plenty old enough to do his part. But now it seems he has returned, and the King would very much like us to be there to thank him for his service to Russia. I think it’s only proper to go and present him with something – a medal, perhaps. Yakov.” It was clear he wasn’t paying any attention to what she was saying, his eyes instead fixed on the top of the letter. “Is there something particularly interesting about that piece of paper?” she demanded.

Yakov raised the letter. “It was written a week ago, the ball is in four days.” Well, that would explain why the thing was so crumpled up, the postman had probably forgotten it at the bottom of his sack until now. “It will take that long just to get to Almaty, we’d have to leave this afternoon. Does it not seem a little more trouble than it might be worth? We have nothing to gain from making this journey, Kazakhstan is under our control already…”

“Please, Uncle.” Surprisingly, it was Mila who spoke up, propping her elbows on the table in a gesture that made Lilia tut so she could clasp her hands together pleadingly. “I’d love to see Almaty, I’ve never been. And it would be good for Yuri to get out of the palace! I’ve heard it’s hotter in Kazakhstan than it is in Russia – wouldn’t it be nice for him to get some sun? He’s looking so awfully pale.” It was a sly trick, using Yuri as bait to get Yakov to agree to the trip. Although his parents had eased up somewhat on the tight protection following his stunt with the mushrooms, they still kept a firm eye on him to make sure he didn’t put himself in any danger, and he knew they’d try anything at that point to cheer him up a little. Not for his own happiness, but more to ensure he wouldn’t try to end his life. “And,” Mila continued, “If this is a celebration, there will likely be representatives there from other countries. Although you may not have any cause for chasing diplomatic relations with Kazakhstan, there will be opportunities to make links with other nations, especially now that the war is over.” Her eyes were bright – she knew he’d got him wrapped around her finger.

There was a while when the table fell silent, and Yuri focused on picking apart a piece of toast. The idea of being put into a hot carriage and forced to travel all the way to Almaty for four days didn’t particularly appeal to him at all, but then again, neither did staying in St Petersburg just to stare at the pathetic attempts at sunlight break through grey clouds from behind his bedroom window. At least being in Kazakhstan would afford him the smallest semblance of freedom, and for that reason, he kept his mouth shut and allowed Mila to say her piece.

Lilia eventually rose from the table with a sigh. “Yuri. Mila. Find servants and have them pack your things, enough for a week’s stay. You will need things for hot weather but also for dinner and the ball itself, to please, find something smart. If this is a diplomatic visit we need to ensure you look presentable. Yuri, you must also pen a letter to Jean-Jacques congratulating him on his own safe return from battle, and you must tell him where you will be for the upcoming week in case he wishes to write to you while you are gone.” She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room and sighed again. “The pair of you have an hour before we must leave if we are to make it to Almaty in time.” And with that, she swept out of the room to make her arrangements.

Mila let out a noise that was midway between a squeal and a gasp, and immediately snatched Yuri’s wrist to drag him away from the table where Yakov, apparently unconcerned with the time pressure against them, continued to eat. “Come on, Yuri!” she breathed, tugging him through the halls of the palace and up to her bedroom. Clearly she had no intention of allowing Yuri to choose his own things to pack, she was going to hold him hostage in her own rooms and allow the servants to take care of his clothes for him. “You must help me decide what to bring, it’s been so long since I’ve been anywhere other than this palace.”

Yuri supposed it made sense for her to be so excited. After all, unlike him, Mila was not yet betrothed or tied down to anyone – she could use this ball as an opportunity to find herself somebody to marry. He sank down on the mattress of her bed to watch her excitedly throw open her wardrobe, though his mind was miles away. He, like Mila, had never been to Kazakhstan in his entire life. Although she had died before Yuri was born, his grandfather had once told him that his grandmother had been Kazakh. Not from Almaty, but from a much smaller village closer to the west of the country. Despite that, he’d never learned the language or much about the culture – all he knew of it was that it was now under Russian control, and that this Prince Otabek was the only son of the King and Queen, although they had one much younger daughter. From memory, he thought Princess Aida was about six years old.

Mila was hurling dresses onto the bed in a frenzy, and he only narrowly missed being hit by the reels of bright fabrics. He was sure he’d never seen Mila wearing anything this colourful before – did she really have a collection reserved just for travelling? Or perhaps it was reserved for when she attended a ball; she’d worn a very bold pink to Victor’s birthday party. Yuri cursed himself for thinking of that stupid night yet again, and he turned his head to the side to try and busy himself with looking at something else to distract him. “What do you think it will be like?” he asked, running his fingers over the tulle underskirts of one of the dresses. Honestly, he couldn’t fathom how Mila didn’t drop unconscious when wearing these ridiculous things in what would surely be stifling heat in Almaty.

“Hot,” Mila sighed, a romantic sort of smile on her face. Dear god, they hadn’t even left the palace yet and already she was being completely insufferable. Yuri wasn’t sure who he’d prefer to be put in a carriage with, if this was how she would be behaving on the entire four-day journey. Perhaps it would be better to bite his tongue and force himself in with Yakov or Lilia. “And beautiful. I hear there are mountains, tall ones with snow on top even in the hottest days of summer. And there are beautiful lakes, apparently, surrounded by wildflowers.” It sounded like the sort of rubbish from a romantic novel, and Yuri scoffed, standing up.

“I need to go and write to my fiancé,” he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm. He could never say the word seriously, because in his mind, the entire set-up was still some sort of a big joke. He couldn’t, in all seriousness, refer to Jean-Jacques as his betrothed without sneering afterwards. Yuri left her bedroom and went back down to his own, where a servant was quietly removing clothes from his wardrobe and folding them neatly into the steamer trunk at the end of his bed. He nodded to her in acknowledgement and went to go and sit by his writing desk, staring at the blank piece of paper in front of him.

The royal Russian crest was already printed at the very top of the page, so Yuri didn’t see much point in going through the ridiculous formalities of writing out ‘To His Majesty the Dauphin of France from His Highness Prince Yuri Plisetsky of Russia’, it would simply be a waste of ink and, more importantly, a waste of his time. And so instead he simply began the letter with his name, finding it unlikely that his future husband would be too insulted by it,

 

_Jean-Jacques,_

_Congratulations on your safe return from war and the victory you helped secure for your country. I regret that I was unable to meet you this spring however I understand how pressing your duties can be. I am writing to inform you that for the upcoming week and a half I will be travelling to Almaty, Kazakhstan and I advise you to address any letters to the care of their court if you wish me to read them._

_Regards,_

_Yuri Plisetsky_

 

It was informal, nothing particularly inspiring or fitting of a couple who would be married in just two very short years. But it was all he could muster with his current energy – he wasn’t being impolite, and Lilia couldn’t ask for any more than that. Once the letter was signed off, he slid it into an envelope, dripped melted wax onto it carefully, and pressed down with the seal. Then he left it there on the table to dry, knowing one of the servants would collect it for him and give it to the post man when he came the following day.

His trunk was packed by the time he was done writing, and the servant had taken her leave without making a sound. A quick glance into his wardrobe told Yuri that all of his thicker, winter clothes remained, which led him to believe that the trunk was full of lighter cloths that wouldn’t weigh him down in the heat. Two more servants, male this time, came to carry the trunk down to the courtyard where three separate royal carriages were waiting. One was reserved solely for luggage, as it was deemed too cruel to expect four horses to pull two people and their trunks in the heat for four days. Their things were loaded on and strapped down firmly, and fastened with padlocks lest anybody try to stop them on the roads and get inside them. It wasn’t something Yuri was particularly concerned about – he knew all of their drivers would be carrying weapons too, and they would stop to rest at night instead of chancing the roads in the dark.

The second carriage seemed to belong to himself and Yakov, and he realised that the passengers were being separated based on gender, for whatever ridiculous reason. He sighed as he climbed up into the carriage and took his seat opposite his father, arranging himself comfortably against the padded leather seat. If they were going to be travelling for four whole days, he was going to make sure he did it in relative comfort. Yakov climbed up after him, the carriage rocking just a little with his weight, and Yuri rolled his eyes and decided to stare at a fixed point out the window as the procession started to roll out of the palace gates.

To avoid any unnecessary spectacle in the city, the drivers took them down side-roads and out into the woods as soon as they possibly could, keeping them away from the more densely-populated urban areas and instead diverting their route through the countryside. It would take longer, Yuri noted resentfully, and it still didn’t stop the rural people coming out of their houses to wave them down and ogle them like caged animals as they rolled down the dirt roads. Yakov told him to be polite and wave to the people – he raised his hand once, held it there, then set it back down in his lap without a word.

For the entire first day of travelling, he barely said anything to Yakov. He occasionally asked him to draw down the curtain on his side of the carriage when the light was getting in his eyes or hand him the flask of water, but aside from that he kept resolutely silent. Yakov didn’t seem to mind – he’d had the foresight to bring a book with him to keep him entertained, and he seemed content to keep his nose buried in its pages and leave his son to stare out the window at the trees rolling past them. The sun never quite managed to make itself poke through the clouds, and so most of their journey on that first day was grey and overcast. It didn’t do their carriages justice; Yuri knew the only reason Lilia had selected these specific carriages was for the elegant gold accents on the outside of them that would catch the bright sunlight once they reached Almaty.

They stopped that night to rest, having sent letters ahead to specific inns along the road so that they could be prepared for a royal visit. Yuri was made to share a room with Yakov, in two separate beds with a low table between them that held water for the both of them and the plates they’d eaten off before falling asleep. In a revelation that Yuri wasn’t at all happy about, he realised that his father snored terribly and he suddenly understood why there had been rumours that he and Lilia had slept separately for so many years. How could anybody get a decent night’s rest when it sounded as though somebody were suffocating next to them? After a while he gave up and slipped out of his bed, the wooden floorboards freezing underneath his toes as he padded to the window to look out. Their drivers were still awake and standing by the stables, brushing down the horses and making sure they had oats and water so they could recover before starting again the next day. After all, the journey was a long one and it was exhausting on the horses who had to pull the carriages, even if the weight was shared between four of them.

The following morning Yuri decided to skip breakfast, feeling queasy having not slept a wink during the night. When Yakov told him bluntly that he was looking a little pale, Yuri waved a hand dismissively and told him the heat was stifling him, deciding to forego any mention of the snoring. He still had to sit in the carriage with him for another three days, there was no sense in causing an argument now. Because he was so tired, he fell asleep almost immediately once the carriages started to move again, the gentle rocking movement sending him off quickly. He didn’t know how long he was down except for the fact that it was already dark again when he woke, and he had around four hours of being awake before they arrived at the next inn and were sent to their bedrooms with trays of food. He was allowed to sleep alone that night, blissfully, and he shovelled down his soup quickly before passing back out on the slightly lumpy mattress. He’d already decided, after just two days, that he hated travelling and everything about it.

On the third day, having had twice the amount of sleep he needed, he was restless and in the mood to talk. He’d been thinking extensively about his ridiculous situation with his fiancé, and he’d drawn a conclusion that needed some questions answering. So, when it looked as though Yakov had finished his book and was simply staring out the window of the carriage for lack of anything better to do, Yuri cleared his throat and said, “One week.”

Yakov glanced up and hummed inquisitively.

“One week. It’s not a very long time to arrange an entire marriage, is it?” Yuri tilted his head to the side, arching an eyebrow with his skinny arms folded over his chest. “Mama said she reached out to Jean-Jacques and the French court after Victor betrayed us for the Japanese whore –“

“YURI.”

“…But now that I think about it, one week just doesn’t seem like enough time to make an arrangement like that. It would take that long to exchange one letter alone, and I don’t think I can reasonably believe that’s all it took to get the French King to agree to this marriage. It would take weeks, surely, or months even, of persuasion and bargaining and making deals. Wouldn’t it?”

Yakov remained silent, staring at a space on the carriage wall behind Yuri’s head with his jaw clenched tightly.

“Wouldn’t it, Papa?” Yuri demanded, leaning forward in his seat. “Answer me! How long had Mama been planning to marry me to him? How long?!”

Expelling a deep sigh, Yakov rubbed a hand over his forehead. “You must understand, Yuri,” he began slowly, and Yuri wondered if he was nervous about being in such a small, enclosed space with his son who was known for throwing spectacular tantrums. “We assumed we would secure an alliance with Switzerland through Victor’s marriage to Christophe, and it seemed fitting to have a stable relationship with their neighbours as well, so France was the next logical step. And Victor was set to inherit – Christophe was going to give up his rights to the Swiss throne and pass them on to his younger brother, leaving Victor to rule Russia as Tsar and you to marry a monarch and move to their palace with them – in this case, Versailles. But then Victor…made his own decision, and your mother and I will not risk snubbing France by withdrawing the offer of marriage from them now. It would be an insult of the highest degree, and considering we have just successfully ended a war, we are not looking to begin another on the grounds of a marriage. I don’t think you understand quite how blessed we were that the Swiss family didn’t take Victor’s indiscretion as more of an insult. We were extremely fortunate that he and Christophe already had a friendship, I dread to think what the consequences could have been otherwise. But we would not be so lucky if we withdrew the offer of marriage from France. If there is one thing the King and his Dauphin are known for, it is their unrivalled pride and ego. So you will proceed with the marriage to Jean-Jacques as we planned years ago, and when the time comes, you will make a decision to divide your time between the palaces of Versailles and St Petersburg or, if your husband desires it, you will delegate your duties to a panel of advisors and rule by decree from France. The situation is not ideal and not as we had hoped, but we cannot risk the insult and humiliation of putting a stop to this now.”

Years ago. They had planned the marriage years ago. Even if Victor had done what he was told, even if he’d married Christophe, Yuri still would have ended up betrothed to Jean-Jacques against his will. He was furious, beyond furious – he’d assumed that by agreeing to marry him, he was doing what was best for Russia and fulfilling his duties as the new heir, but really he’d never had a choice in this at all. Yuri saw red, and before he knew what he was doing he’d twisted around in his seat to reach through the window of the carriage and tap the shoulder of the driver. “Stop the carriage,” he demanded, his voice sounding far away even to his own ears. When they continued to drive, Yuri tried again, this time raising his voice, “I said stop it!”

They rolled to a halt. Lilia and Mila’s carriage was in front of them, so when Yuri jumped down from his own he watched them continue on for a moment before realising they were no longer being followed, and their carriage slowly stopped as well. Yuri folded his arms over his chest as Yakov sighed and leaned out of the door. “Yuri, get back in the carriage,” he demanded, holding it open for him to climb back up. “This is ridiculous. You’ve known for over a year now that you will be married to Jean-Jacques and you have had more than enough time to get all this embarrassing childishness out of your system. There is no need to humiliate us further by making us late at the court in Almaty.”

Yuri shook his head firmly, standing steadfast on the side of the road with his arms folded resolutely over his chest. “No,” he said. “I won’t ride with you any more, I can’t. Let Mila share this carriage with me, I don’t want to see you or Mother.” There was a hardness to his eyes and a rigid stance to his spine that said he wasn’t going to be persuaded against this, nobody could convince him to get back in that carriage if he had to sit opposite his Father in the knowledge that he’d signed his fate away before Yuri had even reached his teenage years.

Mila had emerged from the front carriage by that point, and was standing on the side of the road with a look of confusion painted across her features. She was holding a fan and using it to quietly stir the air around her, and Yuri hoped for her sake that Yakov made his move quickly to spare her having to stand out in the heat in her big skirts any longer. Eventually, Yakov sighed gruffly and clambered down from the carriage, and Yuri felt a surge of grim pride that he’d managed to manipulate his father that way. He watched as he walked to Lilia’s carriage with his head held high, paused by the side of it to say some words to his wife that Yuri couldn’t hear, then climbed up to sit with her.

Only then did Yuri pull himself back through the door, extending a hand down to help Mila up the step. She settled into the seat Yakov had vacated and arranged her skirts neatly around her, watching her cousin carefully as the carriages began their journey again. She’d chosen a pale pink dress that day, pretty and understated, and the fan she was holding was complete with small soft feathers that had been dyed to look the same colour as the material of her skirt. “What was that?” she asked eventually, when the silence became too great and she was sick of Yuri just staring out the window.

“Nothing.” His response was a little too fast, and he hunched his shoulders over uncomfortably. “It was about the marriage. Obviously.” He didn’t stand to gain anything from telling Mila what his father had told him, it only made his previous attempts to back out of the wedding seem even more pathetic. There was nothing that would work, he’d been tied into this whole arrangement for so much longer than he could even comprehend. It made him wonder how many other aspects of his life had been planned out this way before. How many conversations about him went on behind closed doors that he never got to know about. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said firmly, turning his head away and closing his eyes.

Deciding it was the end of the conversation, Mila sighed and went back to fanning herself, occasionally turning it around to swish some cold air in Yuri’s direction in an attempt to make him smile. She succeeded, eventually, with just the smallest upwards twitch of his lips.

That night Yuri didn’t eat. The meal that the owner of the inn had prepared for them was something he was unfamiliar with, and he realised at that point that they’d long since crossed the border into Kazakhstan. It would explain the lack of conversation between Lilia and the innkeeper, the language barrier presenting an obvious issue despite the generous hospitality that the man still displayed. The beds were still lumpy, only this time he was much too hot instead of too cold, and he woke up several times over the course of the night with his shirt stuck to his back with sweat. More than once he had to get up and splash water in his face or request another glass to drink to replace what he’d lost in perspiration.

Their last day of travel was blissfully short, however it meant that they arrived at the palace in Almaty it was midday and the sun was beating down on them so strongly Yuri was sure it would burn him. He had delicate skin from his years spent in a country where the sun rarely made an appearance, and he could practically feel the milky white tone being lost to an angry red shade as soon as he stepped out of the safety of the carriage. Mila was beside herself, grabbing his arm and pulling him about in circles to point out things of interest, like a particularly nice piece of architecture or one of the servants who she deemed to be particularly attractive.

The King was there to greet them when they arrived, standing on the steps of the palace with his wife. She was beautiful, younger than Lilia with a scarf neatly wrapped and pinned around her head that looked as though it were made of a sheer black material that darkened only when folded over in layers, but was otherwise almost translucent. She had deep brown eyes and a kind smile when she greeted Yuri, and when she held her hand out, she was wearing a ring on her finger that was set with a beautiful yellow-toned stone. Possibly amber, possibly topaz or citrine. The King was tall and youthful looking also, with a full head of hair that was quite a clear contrast to Yakov’s thinning strands, and a powerful jawline that twitched when he smiled.

“It is a pleasure to have you here, your highness,” the King was saying, addressing Lilia directly yet somehow extending the welcome to them all just through his gaze. He was speaking Russian so fluently Yuri would have believed it was his first language. It was interesting how he could exert authority but still retain a sense of approachability and kindness when he spoke. It was a quality Yuri had seen in Victor on the rare occasions that he’d had to speak publically, and it made him uneasy to remember.

“The pleasure is all ours,” Lilia replied, with her own tight-lipped smile. “We are honoured to offer our thanks to your son for his service. We have brought gifts – a small repayment, I know, but we hope it conveys our gratitude.” And with those pleasantries attended to, it seemed the conversation was over.

Lilia and Yakov were led into the palace along with Mila, but it was then that Yuri realised he’d left behind the key to his steamer trunk in the carriage, and without it he’d be completely unable to get his things for the ball later that evening. He whispered this to Mila so she’d know where he’d disappeared to, then ran around the side of the palace to chase after where the drivers had taken their carriages. When he got there, the horses had already been unhooked and he quickly leaned inside his carriage to fetch his key where it was laying on the seat, holding onto it carefully lest he drop it again.

He was about to walk away when he noticed that one of their horses, a beautiful white animal with a shining mane, had been left entirely unattended with her reins and mouth bit still attached. Fortunately she hadn’t made any attempt to run, she was just standing there under the hot sun. Frowning, he walked over to her and rubbed her flank gently with his hand, slipping the key up his sleeve so he’d have both hands free to hold her steady. He looked around and his eyes fell upon a single servant hunched over by the side of the stables, wringing his hands together like a man possessed.

“HEY!” Yuri called, perhaps a little abruptly, and the man’s body jolted as though somebody had shot him. One of his hands flew out to grip the side of the stable door and the other clutched at his heart, and for a second he stood there completely frozen, eyes wide and unfocused as though he were worlds away. Clearly he wasn’t going to come over to him, so instead Yuri walked the horse closer, bringing the pair of them mercifully into the shadow cast by the awning of the stables.

Up close, the man was much younger than Yuri had assumed from his stance before. He didn’t look all that much older than Yuri himself, with smooth, tanned skin and wide brown eyes that were ringed with dark circles. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in months, despite the flush in his cheeks from the outside heat. He was dressed rather nicely for a servant, although Yuri supposed that could simply be the way things were done in Kazakhstan – after all, he didn’t know anything about this place. The man’s hair was jet black, too, and looked thick and full even as the ends were matted to his forehead with sweat. He had a handsome face, overall, tired but darkly attractive. There was a sense of mystery about him.

“What are you doing?” Yuri snapped. It wasn’t like him to be rude to staff – he made a point to always be polite to them back home in St Petersburg – but he was so worn out from the journey and already unaccustomed to the devastating heat that it slipped out before he could stop it. He didn’t even consider the very real possibility that this man only spoke Kazakh, and had no clue what the raid Russian falling from his mouth meant. “These horses are purebred, you can’t just leave them out in the courtyard. Perhaps if you spent less time with your head in the sky and more time doing your actual job, you wouldn’t look so surprised when someone calls you to work.” He scoffed and tossed the reins aside before turning and stomping away towards the palace, leaving the man to stare after him with his lips parted and his eyes wide with undisguised shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	8. Clearing in the Garden

Unlike when he’d been prepared for Jean-Jacques’ supposed visit, there was no fanfare and fussing when it came to dressing for the ball in Almaty. Yuri was left alone in the room that had been assigned to him, and he supposed it was due to the fact that he had nobody to particularly impress. He was engaged to be married and everyone knew it, so Yakov and Lilia were clearly confident that he could dress himself now that he didn’t need to try and attract a husband. He hadn’t needed to for years, it seemed, although he hadn’t known it. 

Still, he made an effort when choosing his clothes simply because he detested being under or overdressed for any occasion. Especially since he’d never visited Kazakhstan before – if he was going somewhere like England, where he’d been multiple times, he wouldn’t have bothered with making such careful selections. But because he had a new court and a new group of people to present himself to, he spent time picking out his jacket and sitting in front of the dresser mirror to neatly braid his hair. That was perhaps the most time-consuming part; he was good at doing other people’s hair, but he usually had a servant to do his own so he found himself at a loose end when it came to how to fix the part behind his head that he couldn’t see. He struggled with it for twenty minutes or so before giving in and sliding in an elaborate jewelled hair pin to hide the somewhat clumsy style at the back of his neck. 

Finally he deemed himself appropriate, and made his way – unescorted, which was rare for him what with his parents’ close watch over him – down to the ballroom. It was nowhere near as grand as the one in the St Petersburg palace, not as vast in length or width and with fewer side-tables and vases positioned around the walls, but it was still a beautiful place. Tilting his head back upon entering Yuri was met with the sight of an intricate mural painted on the ceiling, lots of pale blues and gold that looked like they’d been painted that way to complement the national colours on the flag. The floor was wooden instead of marble like back home, but it had been polished so finely that he could practically see his reflection in the dark glaze, and it fit nicely with the ornate tapestries hanging from the walls. Already people were dancing, but unlike at Victor’s birthday where the festivities had been uncoordinated and sloppy and drunken, the dancing here was ordered and choreographed and smart. Yuri supposed, in the absence of a banquet before the ball, none of the guests were suitably intoxicated to start behaving inappropriately. Yet. 

A flash of red hair caught his eye across the room, and he weaved his way through the crowd to find Mila standing by one of the side-tables, looking as though she were using it as leverage to stretch up on her tiptoes and scan her eyes over the throng of people. Yuri cleared his throat when he approached, raising an eyebrow as if to ask what she was doing. She looked beautiful – it was clear that she, too, had put a lot of thought and effort in to her outfit for the evening. She and Yuri were matching for once, in a powder-blue colour that complimented Mila’s eyes nicely and offset Yuri’s in a striking way, and Yuri didn’t know how he felt about the clear association. Oh well, he supposed it would make it easier to find her if he lost her somewhere – just look for the person dressed like him. “I’m looking for somebody I know,” she explained, narrowing her eyes and continuing her search. “I haven’t seen her yet but I know she’ll be here…” 

Yuri rolled his eyes, stopping a passing waiter and snagging a glass of champagne off the tray he held. He had no idea if they were there for the taking or if the poor man had simply been carrying them elsewhere to be served, but at that point he didn’t much care. He took a long sip and stared out into the crowd of dancers with a cold, stony gaze. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting from the ball, but a small part of him had been hoping for a little more excitement than simple waltzes and polite conversation. His eyes settled for a moment on a face he thought he recognised, a face with dark hair and dark eyes who looked like he’d just crawled up out of hell and happened to arrive in the middle of the ballroom. Yuri clicked his tongue and made a face, tipping back more of his champagne. 

“What?” Mila asked, pausing in her search and lowering herself back down onto her heels. “You look like someone insulted you.” 

Yuri shook his head and gestured vaguely in the direction that he’d been looking. “It’s that asshole from earlier,” he muttered. His champagne glass now empty, he set it behind him on the side-table and folded his arms over his chest in a gesture that he knew Lilia would chide him for, if she were anywhere to be found. Perhaps that was where the waiter had been heading with the glasses, to serve the monarchs wherever they were standing. “Left one of our horses unattended in the courtyard. Do you think people in this country make a habit of not doing their jobs properly?” He inspected his nails as he spoke, the judgement rolling off his tongue so casually that he didn’t even register Mila’s horrified expression beside him. 

“Yuri,” she whispered, eyes wide like saucers and a hand covering her mouth in a particularly dainty display of shock. “That’s…you’re looking at the Prince. Prince Otabek, that’s who you’re calling an…” She didn’t say the word herself, glancing over her shoulder as if she expected Lilia to materialise behind her and rap her across the knuckles for using foul language as a young, respectable lady of the Russian court. “What did you do?”

For a moment, Yuri froze. No, she had to be lying. She had to just be pretending to make him panic, there was no way the trembling, hunched-over mess of a person he’d found in the stables earlier was royalty. The man had jumped half a foot in the air at the sound of Yuri’s voice, for crying out loud. But then Yuri looked at him again, through the crowd, and caught sight of the elegant gold crown sitting atop his head. It wasn’t as big or ornate as any of those possessed by the Russian monarchy, it was simple with no jewels encrusted in the metal, but it sat against his inky hair very nicely and, unfortunately, very undeniably a marker of nobility. “Prince Otabek…” he said under his breath, and made up his mind at that exact second not to acknowledge him any further. No, not tonight. If he got out of that ballroom fast enough he could feign sickness for the remainder of the visit and avoid ever speaking to the man he’d essentially called a useless servant outside his own palace. He turned on his heel and made to walk away, quickly passing Mila and saying, “I’m going outside for some air don’t tell anybody where I’ve…” only to be interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. 

A hand, quite decisively, that did not belong to Mila. 

“Could the air wait for a little while?” That voice didn’t belong to Mila either. Although he hadn’t heard it earlier, Yuri somehow knew that it was coming out of Prince Otabek’s mouth, and that Prince Otabek himself was currently standing directly behind him. When Yuri turned around, his suspicions were confirmed. Up close, dressed in finer clothes and under the warmer light in the ballroom, he didn’t look nearly so haggard as he had out in broad daylight. But there was still the undeniable sense of exhaustion about him, those dark circles, a slight slump to his shoulders despite his obvious efforts to maintain a good posture. His hand fell away from Yuri and he offered him a small smile, warm and genuine that actually reached his eyes, which was something Yuri wasn’t so accustomed to seeing directed towards him. “Would you do the honour of dancing with me, Your Highness?” 

Yuri was too distracted by the use of his title to notice that he was being guided out onto the dance floor. How did Otabek know he was the Russian prince? Yes, he’d come and shouted at him in the courtyard, but he could have been any one of the Russian visitors – could have been a minor royal like Mila, or even just a diplomat’s son. He was snapped out of his thoughts by the feeling of an arm sliding around his waist, and he looked up with the murderous gaze of someone who was ready to lash out before realising that he and Otabek had been swept up into the dancing so seamlessly that he hadn’t even noticed it. Now they were moving, although not quite as gracefully as some of the other pairs. 

For a second Yuri wondered if it was their height difference that was causing the problem; he was quite a bit shorter than Otabek, and it was clear he had to reach a little to hold onto his waist while they danced. But there were plenty of couples out on the floor whose heights were vastly different, and it didn’t seem to be presenting an issue for them. It was only when Yuri stumbled slightly on one step of the dance that he looked down and noticed the way Otabek was deliberately trying to not put weight on one of his feet. But, in true Yuri fashion, he was unable to properly express concern for the prince and instead bluntly stated, “You’re walking strangely.” 

A low chuckle left Otabek’s mouth and he shook his head, drawing Yuri slightly closer to the edge of the floor so they wouldn’t be in the way of any partners who were already wrapped up in their dancing. “Yes, my leg is…” He cleared his throat, and Yuri thought he saw a blush forming on his cheeks, although it was hard to tell with the dim lighting in the room and Otabek’s already tanned skin. “I was shot.” Yuri had asked bluntly, so he would answer bluntly. It was no secret that he’d been to war – his safe return was what the entire ball was in aid of, after all – and despite his father’s gentle encouragement to ‘show strength’ in front of the Russian royals, he saw no sense in trying to hide that he was injured. If the Russians were going to feel guilty about sending him to battle, they would have felt it already – one gunshot wound wouldn’t bring about any remorse. 

Yuri went quiet. He hadn’t meant to sound insulting by pointing it out, he was simply curious about the imbalanced way in which Otabek was moving. He coughed quietly and looked off to the side, absently noting that Mila had found the girl she was looking for – a young woman in a deep purple dress with almost ridiculously beautiful features, shadowed by a tall man who looked incredibly uncomfortable to be standing there, and another man who was excitedly tugging on his arm like an overgrown child. Yuri didn’t know who they were or how Mila knew them, but he had more pressing matters at hand. “I’m sorry,” he said eventually, lifting his eyes back up to Otabek’s and praying he hadn’t offended him too terribly. Contrary to popular belief, Yuri didn’t always want to be rude to those around him, especially people such as Otabek who had done absolutely nothing to scorn him. “Does it hurt, would you like to sit somewhere?” He couldn’t imagine what a bullet would feel like piercing his skin, digging itself into his muscle, but he could only assume it was an excruciating type of pain that he hoped he never had to experience. 

Looking a little relieved, Otabek nodded and slid the arm around Yuri’s waist up a little to rest a hand at the small of his back. “We could get that air you wanted,” he suggested, that same little smile back in place. He guided Yuri away from the dancing crowd, and even though Yuri was looking around the entire time he mercifully didn’t spot Yakov or Lilia spying on him. It was such a strange and new feeling, being able to walk without being constantly watched, that he almost wanted to run on ahead from Otabek just to see how far he could pull at the tether before he was dragged back. But he didn’t, he stayed put and let Otabek lead him out onto a balcony that had two sets of stone steps, one on either side. 

Now, out under the moonlight, the tiredness was beginning to show again on Otabek’s face. The candlelight from inside had softened his features a little, but the outside air made clear once more that something was obviously draining him, and had been for quite some time. Not only that, but there was also a little perspiration gathered at the man’s temples, and Yuri wondered if dancing on his injured leg was really so painful that it caused him to exert so much energy to do it. Yuri felt a little guilty for agreeing to dance with him, as if he should have known and put a stop to it before he hurt himself. 

They ended up walking down the staircase on the right of the balcony, Yuri walking on ahead and stopping at the bottom to allow Otabek to take his time. He wouldn’t rush him, he was quite content to stand and look out at the vast expanse of garden behind the palace. This reminded him a lot of St Petersburg, the neatly-trimmed grass and well-kept flowerbeds full of all sorts of colours and scents. There were fountains, too, and Yuri could hear the water trickling and it was so peaceful that he almost wanted to close his eyes and just stand there listening. The air outside was warm and humid, but still more pleasant and fresh than the stagnant heat inside where bodies were pressed too close together and it was a mix of artificial perfumes and colognes. Both the heat and the mountain peaks visible in the distance were the two ways he found to distinguish the gardens from those back in Russia, and he found himself wondering in the back of his mind if he perhaps preferred these ones. There was something so quiet and still about them, so…natural. Back in Russia it felt almost as though the garden was just an extension of the palace, surrounded by tall brick walls and fortified like an old castle so there was no sense of freedom. Here, Yuri felt as though he could walk to the end of the lawn and keep walking until he hit wide open countryside and the transition would be seamless. 

Otabek joined him at his side and placed a hand on his elbow, his breath just the slightest bit laboured. Was it really a good idea for the pair of them to be walking around if Otabek found it so difficult, so uncomfortable? “I can show you my favourite place out here, if you like,” he offered, holding his arm out for Yuri to link his own through it. He did so, and they started to walk along the grass in companionable silence. Yuri could hear crickets chirping somewhere, although there was no visible long grass for them to be hiding in, and soon the sounds of music coming from the palace drifted away from them the further down the garden they got. Otabek didn’t seem to be struggling nearly as much with regular walking as he had done with dancing and the stairs, and Yuri supposed there was less of a strain on his muscles simply to put one foot in front of the other. 

After a little while, once the sounds of the ball were completely dulled and the only source of light came from the moon and not the palace windows, Yuri shoved down his remaining shred of pride and said quietly, “I’d like to apologise for shouting at you before.” He was staring down at the dark grass, which felt spongy and light beneath his feat. Logically it should have all dried up under the harsh Almaty sun during the day, but there must have been excellent gardeners working tirelessly to keep it hydrated. “I didn’t realise you were the prince. Not that it’s any excuse – you must know, I don’t usually speak to servants that way, I always try my best not to when I’m at home. But I’d been sat in a carriage for four days, see, and I was too hot and very tired and…” 

“It’s alright.” Otabek wasn’t looking at him, he was staring ahead of him, but the corner of his lips were pulled up in a smile. “I’m sorry for being so easily scared. I should have liked to be at the front of the palace to greet you with Mother and Father, but unfortunately I wasn’t feeling quite well, so I had to take some time alone. Nobody bothers the stable-hands so I thought I would be safe there.” At that, he glanced down at Yuri with a little raised eyebrow, playfully accusatory, and a deep red blush covered Yuri’s face as he stared studiously down at the ground.

Eventually, they found what Otabek deemed to be his favourite place in the gardens. And Yuri could completely see why – even in the dark, it was beautiful. It reminded him of when a clearing occurred naturally in the woods, a little circular patch of grass surrounded by flowers. A fairy ring, Victor used to call it when Yuri was little, sitting his five-year-old self in the middle of a circle of toadstools and telling him all kinds of stories about the imaginary creatures who came out to dance there when it was dark. This particular clearing obviously hadn’t happened naturally, it had been carefully fashioned by gardeners, but it was no less stunning. There was a stone bench in front of a marble fountain that resembled some sort of angelic child trickling water out of a jug, and opposite that there were several low flowerbeds surrounded by tiny hedges full of wildflowers that caged them into the space almost like a maze. It felt…private, quiet, comfortable. There were trees a little further off to one side, and the path they had taken to get to the clearing was, strangely enough, illuminated by a single oil lantern standing in the grass. 

“Did you put that there?” Yuri asked as they sank down onto the bench. Once again Otabek took a moment to brace himself before sitting, and it made Yuri wonder where exactly the bullet wound lay in his leg. Near the knee joint, perhaps? It would explain the difficulty with stairs and dancing, yet his ability to walk just fine in a straight line. Yuri leaned back against the stone fountain and sighed softly, closing his eyes for a moment. The water present in the bowl-like receptacle of the fountain had made the stone pleasantly cool to the touch, a nice contrast to the warm humidity of the night. 

Otabek shook his head, eyes narrowing. “I would assume one of the gardeners left it here when they finished their duties, but if that were the case, it should have burned out by now…” He and Yuri glanced up in unison when a rustling noise came from one of the taller flowerbeds, and Yuri’s hand flew out to grip Otabek’s wrist without even realising what he was doing. He could feel that Otabek had gone very still as well, and the pair of them could only wait and see who emerged. Yuri hoped for a simple drunk couple of stumble out, too wrapped up in each other’s pleasures to care that two princes were sat alone talking, one of whom was engaged. 

He was surprised, then, to see instead a very small girl tumble out of the flowers wearing a nightdress with her hair in a long plait down her back. Well. That was certainly unexpected. At least she clearly didn’t pose a threat – she looked like she’d barely come up to Yuri’s hip in height, and her big toothy grin when she looked at Otabek wasn’t the least bit worrying. She had the same black hair and brown eyes as him, and very pretty, delicate features, like a cherub. And, Yuri noted when the girl scrambled further into the path of the light from the lantern, her nice white nightdress was completely covered in grass stains. 

“Aida.” The name rushed out of Otabek in a release of breath, his jaw hanging open as the girl trotted towards them both. “What are you…Mama told you to go to bed hours ago! She sent somebody up to check on you, you were asleep!” Yuri tried to remember what time it was, in the absence of a clock, and he thought he remembered it being around 10pm when they’d left the ballroom together. So it was at least half an hour later than that now, and yet this small girl was walking around with so much energy it could have been first thing in the morning. 

Yuri could only watch on in surprise as the girl approached the bench where they were sitting and placed her small hands on Otabek’s knees. Alright, so perhaps his injury wasn’t there, or else that would have been incredibly painful. “I was pretending,” she whispered, a bright smile still on her face. She was missing one of her front teeth, and her tongue poked through the gap when she talked, which was rather endearing. “I wanted to come and see the Russian who shouted at you!” With that, the deep red blush was back on Yuri’s cheeks, and he turned his head to one side to try and hide it. Children, he knew, were very perceptive, and he doubted she’d refrain from commenting on the flush if she saw it. 

Otabek smiled fondly and reached out to remove a stray leaf from his little sister’s hair, replacing it instead with a yellow wildflower he plucked from one of the low hedges by the fountain. A buttercup, Yuri thought, though he was no expert on flowers. Once it was tucked neatly behind the girl’s ear, Otabek gently turned her to the side and said, “Aida, this is Prince Yuri Plisetsky. He’s come all the way from Russia just to shout at me so you must be very kind to him.” The look he shot Yuri over her head was teasing and playful, unlike anything Yuri had seen before, and it only served to deepen the blush rather than alleviate it. 

Princess Aida immediately stuck her hand out to him, palm down, and lifted her chin in a haughty gesture that was clearly intended to be funny but was actually an expression that Yuri had seen on many nobles in Russia who were trying to be serious. He grinned a little and leaned down to peck her hand gently, nodding his head to her in an exaggerated display of respect. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, your highness,” he said, his voice dripping with silly amounts of grandeur. He didn’t know what had come over him – since when had he been silly with anybody? He and Victor had played when he was younger, but he’d outgrown that long ago, and he and Mila’s conversations were sometimes animated but never deliberately immature. And yet, he found that he liked it. It was relaxing to not take himself, or anything, so seriously for once.

She giggled and drew her hand away. “You already met me, Yuri!” she announced, making a sort of grabbing motion at Otabek until he sighed and lifted her – with some difficulty that he tried not to show in his expression – up onto the stone bench between them. Her feet were bare and they, too, were stained green from the grass. It was a good thing it was so warm in Almaty – if she’d been wandering around with bare feet in just a nightdress in St Petersburg, she would have caught a bad cold. “See?” She was gesturing to the fountain, and when Yuri looked where she wanted him to, she twisted her body neatly into a pose that perfectly imitated that of the angelic statue. And now that Yuri looked, it was true that she did bear a startling resemblance to the angel with he jug who was pouring the water down into the bowl of the fountain. 

“Our parents had it commissioned for her last birthday,” Otabek explained, an arm around his sister’s shoulders to keep her steady as she balanced precariously one foot to imitate her marble counterpart’s pose. “She’s very proud of it.” He was looking up at her with so much affection that it almost made Yuri remorseful, because an irritating part of him reared its head to remind him that he no longer had any relationship that even closely resembled the one shared by Otabek and Aida. The only relationships Yuri could claim were cold and political. 

“It’s lovely,” Yuri said, forcing himself to snap out of his thoughts and give the princess the attention she so clearly deserved and wanted. “Although I think you would do a much better job than the statue – how long do you think you could stand there pouring water?” he teased. 

Aida hummed like she was considering it, then sprang off the bench like a rabbit and landed gracefully on the grass. “Forever!” she declared, completing a little spin on the tips of her toes. Aspiring ballet dancer, perhaps? Everyone needed hobbies and Yuri knew the ballet was considered respectable by the royals, in the same way that his ice skating was humoured as a form of recreation that wouldn’t do him any harm and could easily be dropped when more important matters – like his ridiculous marriage – came to hand. 

Otabek smiled and glanced back up at the oil lamp nestled in the grass. “You should be in bed, Aida,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. He wasn’t saying it because he wanted to spoil her fun, he was saying it for her wellbeing. “You’ll want to get back to the palace before that oil lamp burns out, won’t you? You never know what might be lurking to get you in the dark…” He reached out as far as he could without having to actually get off the bench, grabbing his sister and tickling her mercilessly as she squealed and writhed and let out breathless laughter. Eventually he released her and grinned, and Yuri was struck by how much more…awake he looked after just five minutes of interacting with her. Of course, nothing could rid him of the dark circles beneath his eyes except for a good night’s sleep, but his posture seemed less tense and he was so much more…at ease. “Besides, how will you keep Yuri company tomorrow if you’re too tired to keep your eyes open?”

Aida seemed to consider that for a moment, then she relented and gave her brother a firm nod. “Don’t tell Mama I was here,” she said seriously, her dark eyebrows set into a little scowl that was obviously meant to be intimidating but really looked about as terrifying as a kitten. She turned and went to pick up the oil lamp, raising it a little to see how long she had left before it went out. Satisfied, she called, “See you tomorrow, Yuri!” before disappearing back the way she had come, not along the footpath but instead through the tall flowerbeds and off somewhere unknown. 

Yuri let out a little disbelieving laugh, turning to see Otabek looking after her with a similar expression. “I apologise,” he said sincerely, though his tone was light. “I honestly thought she would be in bed by now…we rarely have parties here, I suppose she didn’t want to be the only one to miss out.” And Yuri understood, to a certain extent – it must be difficult to be six years old in a family whose actions were largely dictated by the Russians and whose only son had been injured in war, only for the palace to suddenly descend into celebration upon his return. Difficult and confusing, Yuri imagined. 

“I don’t mind, not at all,” Yuri said earnestly. He fell silent for a while, twisting and running his fingers through the water in the fountain. It was so nice and cool, and he ran his fingertips briefly over the inside of his wrists to cool them down where his pulse was throbbing hotly. “Otabek?” He wondered if maybe he should use his proper title or at least call him ‘sir’, but it seemed rather ridiculous to bother with formalities when he’d just watched the man tickle his little sister and playfully insinuate monsters would come to get her in the dark. 

Otabek didn’t seem to mind the first-name basis. He’d reclined a little on the stone bench and was now leaning against the fountain with his eyes closed, the picture of ease at first glance before Yuri realised he must have been completely exhausted, if the state of his eyes were anything to go by. Yuri wondered how long it had been since he’d last slept, and what the reason was for his sleeplessness. “Mm?” he hummed. 

Yuri sat back down on the bench the right away around, and fidgeted with his hands in his lap. “What happened when you got injured? You said you got shot, but…how?” 

At that, Otabek opened his eyes slowly. The stiffness came back to his shoulders and Yuri instantly regretted asking the question, having been enjoying Otabek’s relaxed state so much. “I don’t want to bore you with all that tonight,” he said gently, and that was plenty to lay the conversation to rest – Yuri wasn’t going to push further for answers when it was clear it made Otabek so uncomfortable. 

“Alright, how about a different question?” he said instead, turning to face him which put his back to the path behind him. “How did you know to call me ‘Your Highness’ earlier in the ballroom? I could have been anybody – I could have been family of royalty, like my cousin Mila, or the son of a diplomat or an aristocrat…” 

“Your eyes.” There was no hesitation in Otabek’s voice when he spoke, and Yuri found him staring directly at him when he looked up at his face. His expression was soft and intent. “Your eyes gave you away. Like a soldier’s, they’re unforgettable – they’re exactly the same.” 

Yuri frowned. Exactly the same as what? He assumed he meant Victor – despite their eyes being two completely different colours, people often took one look at them and decided they were a matching pair because of how bright and jewel-like they seemed. “I don’t under…” 

“Yuri…” Otabek interrupted him, his eyes now focused on something over his shoulder. 

“…Stand, lots of people have green eyes, how did you know I was the…”

There was a rustle in the grass behind him, and Yuri let out a little sigh, the corner of his mouth curling up into a smile. He was still smirking when he half-turned his head towards the source of the noise, whatever Otabek had been staring at, and giggled, “Aida, Otabek told you to go to…” only to freeze when he found himself talking into a broad, well-decorated chest. He tilted his head back, and was met with the stern, piercing eyes of his father glaring back down at him. “Oh.” 

“’Oh’ indeed.” Yakov’s tone suggested his level of frustration, and Yuri winced internally. How long, exactly, had he and Otabek been gone from the ball? He hadn’t been keeping track and now he feared that it was longer than he’d thought. “Your mother and I have been looking everywhere for you.” He reached down and grabbed Yuri’s arm, pulling him up off the bench until he cooperated and stood on his own. Then Yakov’s gaze was turned on Otabek, and Yuri felt a strange protective surge for him – he didn’t deserve the scrutiny Yakov was no doubt about to put him under, he wasn’t his son, he had no right. “Your father has been looking for you,” was all he said, and Yuri let out a small breath. Otabek’s father didn’t seem at all harsh or threatening from the brief introduction they’d had earlier that day, and Yuri resolved that Otabek likely wasn’t in as much trouble as he was for sneaking away. “The ball is coming to a close, drinks are being served in the drawing room and your father has requested your presence. We would like to present you with your reward.” 

Otabek rose from the bench in one fluid movement, and although that must have caused him an immense amount of pain considering how hard he’d found it just to walk downstairs, Yuri noticed that his expression didn’t once falter. Why not? Why was he hiding his discomfort around Yakov? Otabek didn’t seem the type to let pride dictate his actions, so it must have been something else. “You are very generous, your highness, thank you.” He bowed at the waist, and it was only when his face was turned towards the ground that Yuri noticed his jaw clench in a sign of pain. His hip, the wound had to be just below his hip joint, where his thigh met his pelvis, Yuri realised. It would explain why the bowing hurt so badly. 

Once he’d righted himself and smoothly regained his composure before Yakov was able to see his face again, he walked out of the clearing and back down the path towards the palace with no sign of a limp or stagger. Yuri dread to think the pressure he was placing on himself to walk like that, and he wished Otabek would just allow himself to be comfortable – let Yakov see the injury, let him feel guilty that he’d sent an eighteen year old boy into war and allowed him to come out like this. 

Yakov turned to Yuri once Otabek was sufficiently out of sight, glaring at him. “What on Earth are you thinking?” he demanded, folding his hands over his chest. “Dancing with a man who is not your betrothed is bad form enough, but your mother and I were willing to overlook it for the sake of appearing courteous to Prince Otabek’s father. But sneaking away with him to a dark garden, alone, unchaperoned? Do you have any idea the rumours that will be spread about you?” He closed his eyes tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you honestly think that Jean-Jacques will want to marry a man who has been…soiled?” There was something gleeful about Yakov’s stiff-lipped inability to confront the idea of his son being in bed with anyone, even though he’d personally made an arrangement that it would be inevitable as soon as he reached eighteen. 

“Do you honestly think I care what Jean-Jacques thinks of me?” Yuri retorted, sounding awfully bored. He was still watching Otabek from behind Yakov’s arm, and he noticed that now he was far enough away, he had started to limp again. When he reached the steps of the balcony, he paused and leaned heavily against them, and Yuri could see the small, distant figure press his head against the marble railing for a moment. Something in Yuri’s chest ached. 

Yakov snatched his arm again, dragging Yuri’s attention back to his own situation. “You insolent little…” He took a deep breath and let it go, his hand loosening on Yuri’s wrist just slightly. “You may not care, but your mother and I do, and I will not stand for you disrespecting the work we have put in to making this arrangement.” He started to walk down the path that Otabek had just trodden, half-dragging Yuri alongside him. “You need to rest. Your husband will not take you if look half-dead like our host for the week.” It was such a harsh and unnecessary attack on Otabek that it twisted Yuri’s stomach uncomfortably, and he walked several paces behind Yakov the entire way back to the palace to resist looking at his father. He was so focused on ignoring him that he failed to notice the pair of wide brown eyes watching them from the flowerbeds as they exited the clearing, or the dim glow of a lantern about to go out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	9. The Hero and the Fairy

The suggestion that Yuri spend the day with Aida had apparently been a serious one. Yuri had rather been hoping to spend more time with Otabek, to apologise for Yakov’s interruption the night before and get to know him a little better. He’d only spoken to him for a small number of hours but Otabek was already easier for him to talk to than anybody else he was surrounded with on a daily basis, even Mila, who he’d become accustomed to confiding in ever since he found himself sibling-less. But when he awoke that morning, dressed and walked down to breakfast, he was told that the prince would be away from the palace all day on a hunt with his father and some noblemen who had visited for the ball. Yakov and Lilia were nowhere to be found, although Yuri suspected they had found an isolated room of the palace in which they could sit silently and read and not interact with anybody any more than necessary. It left a sour taste in his mouth, how they honestly thought they were so high above the Kazakh monarchy that they went to such lengths to distance themselves from them. Yuri was sure that if it had been the French palace they had visited, to celebrate Jean-Jacques’ return, Lilia and Yakov would have been so keen to socialise they’d have practically climbed into bed with the King and Queen themselves. 

Mila had absented herself from breakfast that morning as well, which was particularly unusual. Mila tended to be an early riser and didn’t care much for wasting time in bed, but that day Yuri hadn’t heard a peep from her even by the time he reached the breakfast table at 9 o’clock. And so he dined alone, one servant standing in the corner of the room in case he needed assistance. Yuri didn’t call on him once, instead just buttering himself some slices of toast, selecting an egg, and sitting quietly to eat. Being alone prompted him to eat a little more than he usually would, since there was nobody around to make a quip about his weight or his manners, so when he eventually decided he was full he had a plate in front of him holding three egg shells and the remnants of pastry and bread crumbs. 

He was nursing a cup of tea with milk and copious amounts of sugar when a voice from the doorway said, “That looked like a big breakfast.” The voice sounded impressed, though, rather than judgemental, and Yuri glanced up to find Aida standing there with no sort of chaperone or nanny to accompany her. Fortunate child – Yuri had been babied horribly when he was younger, to the point where he’d been forbidden from walking downstairs unless he was holding the hand of a parent or servant or nanny. Preservation of the second heir, he supposed, in case anything were to happen to Victor. 

Yuri shook himself from his thoughts and glanced down at his plate. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he said, setting his teacup down. “There’s still plenty left, though, if you’re hungry.” He offered her a little smile, standing up to pull a chair out for her. He was nothing if not a gentleman, and Aida was a princess, after all. Yakov and Lilia may have thought they were above the Kazakhs, but he certainly didn’t. 

Aida nodded and walked confidently across the dining room to plant herself in the chair. She looked rather different than she had done last night, now that someone – presumably a despairing governess, if Yuri’s own experiences were any indication – had scrubbed off the grass stains from her skin and dressed her in day clothes as opposed to her nightwear. She was wearing a pale yellow dress that looked particularly pretty against her tanned skin, the same warm tone as Otabek’s, and her hair had been braided neatly and tied with a ribbon the exact same shade as her outfit. On her feet there were white satin slippers that reminded Yuri very much of dancing shoes, but he supposed they were simply what little girls wore – he wouldn’t know, he’d never had a sister and he didn’t remember what Mila was like when she was younger. She sat up on her chair and immediately reached for a pitcher of milk, pouring it with surprising ease into a clean glass considering she couldn’t have been very strong at just six years old. 

“So, I’m told you and I will be spending the day together,” Yuri said, propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hand. It was bad manners and probably a bad example to be setting for Aida, but he highly doubted she was going to chide him for it. After all, she’d scrambled out of a flowerbed the night before at an hour far past her bedtime – she didn’t seem much of a stickler for the rules. “What do you like to do during summer?” He thought over all of his own hobbies, and which ones could potentially apply to a girl her age. Horse riding? She seemed a little young, unless she had a pony. Reading? Once again, he didn’t remember how skilled six year olds were when it came to literacy. She was clearly smart enough to speak both Kazakh and Russian, though that may well have been how she was raised – he knew that by the time she was born Kazakhstan was already firmly under Russian control and the language was somewhat essential given the political situation. 

Aida didn’t answer until she’d sufficiently put together a breakfast plate for herself. It was considerably healthier than Yuri’s, consisting of several types of fruit and a boiled egg. “It’s sunny, I want to sit in the garden,” she decided easily. “Will you read to me? Otabek said he would do it but Mr Maksatov made him go hunting with them instead.” She frowned down at her egg and passed it across the table to Yuri, holding it out on her palm so precariously he was a little afraid it would roll off and hit the floor. “Can you cut the top off this for me?” 

Yuri nodded and took the egg from her, taking his knife and carefully slicing off just the top of it while she set about tearing a slice of buttered bread into little strips with her fingers. He found he liked her lack of manners, it was refreshing and endearing, and besides – she was only young. Children were meant to act like this, it was silly that he’d been forced to be the picture of decorum ever since he was five years old. “Who’s Mr Maksatov?” he asked absently, while he found an egg cup to rest her food in. 

The expression that came across Aida’s face was far from pleasant. Her little nose scrunched up and her lips pursed thinly. “He works in a big bank,” she said. “In Russia. He comes here a lot to make sure daddy is spending his money properly, so daddy has to be nice to him but he doesn’t really like him.” Ah. By ‘big bank’, Yuri knew what she meant – treasury. He was from the royal treasury in Russia, sent by Lilia to ensure Kazakhstan was keeping in line with the budget imposed by her. And of course, in choosing to throw a ball for Otabek’s return there was likely to be some considerable expense incurred, so this Maksatov man had come along to keep an eye on things. Vultures. 

Passing Aida’s egg back over the table, Yuri frowned and poured himself another cup of tea. It was going lukewarm in the pot now and this would be the last cup he could manage from it. “Does Otabek like to hunt?” he asked, simply out of curiosity. They hadn’t discussed Otabek’s hobbies the night before, or Yuri’s – they really hadn’t been able to talk about much of anything, come to think of it. He watched as Aida took one of the buttered strips of toast she’d created and dipped it into the runny inside of the boiled egg, then ate it with a happy look on her face. Sweet. 

“He used to,” she said nonchalantly, not offering any more explanation than that. When she caught Yuri watching her eat, she tilted her plate slightly to show him the food there. “Toast soldiers,” she explained cheerfully. “See? They’re standing up straight, like soldiers…”

Yuri smirked softly and nodded. “Like your brother,” he said. 

A bright smile stretched over Aida’s face. “Like my brother,” she agreed, nodding firmly before going back to her breakfast. Yuri decided to let her eat in silence, finally making use of the servant in the corner to ask for a newspaper to be brought to him. He realised only once the man had left the room that it might well be written in Kazakh, which he wouldn’t understand a word of, but fortunately when the paper arrived familiar Russian Cyrillic stood out on the page. Of course. He thanked the servant and sat quietly to read the paper, no sound in the room except Aida happily munching away on her breakfast. First the toast soldiers – he could have sworn he saw her marching them across her plate out the corner of his eye before she ate them – then the fruit, which she took her time with since the juices kept making her hands sticky and she had to stop to wave the servant over and ask for extra serviettes, which were delivered with a fond smile. Yuri understood why, it seemed impossible not to find Aida endearing. 

Once she decided she was done, Aida slid off her chair and came to tug Yuri’s sleeve to divert his attention from the newspaper. “I want you to read to me now,” she said, and Yuri was extremely grateful that she had her own ideas of how she wanted to be entertained. He was very bad at coming up with fun activities, especially considering so much of his own time back home was spent in his own company alone. “I need to go and get my book. There’s a blanket out on the lawn, will you sit there and wait for me?” She was gesturing vaguely in the direction of the back of the palace, and Yuri was sure he could find his way there if he took the route through the ballroom that he and Otabek had walked the night before. 

Yuri nodded, watching as Aida ran away to the staircase to retrieve her things from her bedroom. He made quick work of locating the ballroom and let himself out into the heat of the day, which was even more stifling now the sun was sat high in the sky. It was a dry heat, too, and he found himself stopping a passing servant and politely begging for a pitcher of water to be brought out to them so he didn’t get faint. He located the blanket, a charming patchwork thing that he could easily picture being handmade, and sat himself down to wait for Aida. It was so lovely just to sit and let the sun hit his face that he found himself closing his eyes and tilting his head back towards the sky, leaning back on his arms. Sun rarely pushed through the clouds over St Petersburg, the most he could hope for was a blue-tinted grey cover, so this made such a pleasing change. He wondered if his skin would take on any of the smooth, golden properties of Otabek and Aida’s, or if he would simply burn the way Mila did. 

He sat so still and quiet for so long that he barely even registered Aida returning to the blanket. She positioned herself so she was lying down with her head on Yuri’s leg, which meant his body shielded her eyes from the sun and she could comfortably stretch herself out. She passed the book to him and he was pleased to find it in his own language, since he wasn’t sure he had the heart to tell her he couldn’t read, write or speak Kazakh. 

“What’s this, then?” Yuri murmured, opening the cover of the book to see inside. It was rather thin, bound in green leather with gold-trimmed pages, and the first thing he saw when he turned the page was a beautiful, hand-drawn illustration. There was a cluster of trees, woodland animals like rabbits and deer running about on the sketched grass, and in the background of the picture was a hill that had an idyllic fairytale castle sat atop it. “The Hero and the Fairy?” He smiled and looked down at her, turning the book around so she could see the picture. “Have you read this before?” 

Aida shook her head. “Not in the book with the pictures.” When Yuri raised his eyebrow in questioning, she continued, “Otabek wrote it for me. He sent letters from the war and each letter had a new page.” She reached up and poked the book as if to emphasise her point. “But he said he wouldn’t tell me the ending until he got back. So I don’t know it. He sent the letters to a book seller and had him bind them for so I could read it all together.” She settled in to read, and she even put her thumb in her mouth, which Yuri found particularly adorable. He could understand somewhat why Victor had been so taken with him when he’d first been brought to the palace – Victor had been seventeen at the time, just a year older than Yuri was now, and Yuri had been five, just a year younger than Aida. He forced the thought out of his mind and turned to the first page of the story, taking a deep breath. 

“There was once a young fairy, who lived all by himself in the deepest, darkest part of the forest…” The story progressed much like any fairytale, with the small fairy being captured by an evil sorcerer and locked away in in his secret cave, and the king and queen of the land enlisting the help of a heroic knight – whose name, Yuri had to notice with a barely concealed smile, was Aibek – to go on a quest to save him and bring him back so the fairy could once again use his magic to keep peace in the land. It was surprisingly well-written, and on every page there was a little illustration, some of them overlaid with watercolour, that he allowed Aida to see by turning the book around and holding it up to her. 

Yuri had just reached a part in the story where the hero had dismounted from his noble steed and approached the entrance to the sorcerer’s cave, when Aida’s small hand shot up and covered his mouth firmly. “You can’t read the next part,” she decided firmly, shaking her head and sitting up from her position on the blanket. “That’s the ending, I don’t know it yet. I want Otabek to read it to me.” She took the book and looked at the final illustration, which showed a suspiciously familiar face looking towards the dark mouth of the cave, then closed the book and set it down very carefully on the blanket. “Thank you, Yuri,” she said. “I like your reading. But you don’t do the voices, Otabek does the voices.” 

Yuri smiled and shook his head in a show of fake remorse. “I cannot compete with him, he wrote the story. I think he has a rather unfair advantage, don’t you?” He grinned and lay back on the blanket, the sun getting in his eyes but he didn’t care. It felt nice to lie down after so long sitting upright, and he let his hands wander out onto the lawn, fingers threading through the warm grass. “What else do you like to do?” he asked curiously, plucking some tiny wildflowers and dusting off any soil before reaching out and carefully poking them into the places where Aida’s hair crossed over in her braid. They were buttercups, they matched the yellow of her dress and her ribbon perfectly, and Yuri had always been an advocate for wearing fresh flowers in hair. 

Aida hummed thoughtfully, helping him arrange the flowers in her hair before setting about threading together a daisy chain with quick, nimble fingers. “Sometimes I draw or paint, but I don’t want to go inside, I like the sun.” She thought some more, reaching to grab a daisy by the side of Yuri’s head. It tickled his cheek as she drew it away. “Sometimes I make Otabek play piano for me so I can dance, I love to do that.” It was clear just from listening to her that she adored her brother immensely, thought of him as though he’d hung the moon, but that wasn’t what Yuri had picked up from what she’d just said. 

“Otabek plays piano?” Another hobby they hadn’t mentioned the night before. Yuri himself could find his way around the ivories of a piano just fine – he would never be a great composer nor be invited to play at any gatherings, but he wasn’t unbearable to listen to. He’d been taught to sing, too, although Victor had always been better at that. Yuri didn’t have the patience to take the deep breaths in and out and keep his voice at an even pitch, he found it dull and uninspiring. But he loved listening to piano, when played by a person who truly knew what they were doing. 

“Mhm.” Aida finished her daisy chain and connected the two ends so they formed a sort of crown, placing it on top of Yuri’s head with a little grin. “He doesn’t talk about it but he’s very good! You need to ask him to play before you go home.” She fell silent after that, making yet another chain of flowers, leaving Yuri to his thoughts of music and dancing and other potential talents Otabek may have kept hidden. A servant brought a pitcher of iced water to them and he thanked them absently, pouring a glass for Aida first and then one for himself. 

Yuri had a mouthful of water when Aida decided it was a good time to ask, “What does ‘soiled’ mean?” Which, of course, sent the water promptly flying out of Yuri’s mouth despite his best efforts to keep it in. His cheeks burned red and he held a hand to his lips, turning his face away slightly. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t sit out in the open and attempt to explain to a six year old girl what the word ‘soiled’ implied. She was far, far young to know. “W-why do you ask?” he said, taking another sip of water to calm himself and setting the glass to one side. 

“Your father said it to you last night.” Yuri’s enjoyment of the fact that Aida completely neglected to give Yakov any title was entirely overwritten by the realisation that she’d been present for their conversation in the garden, and she’d heard every word. His face went even darker and he felt shame course through him, head hanging down a little. 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Yuri said quietly, deciding there was no way to escape this situation without giving her some sort of explanation now. “My father was worried my…fiancé would not want me, that’s all.” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead, still careful not to displace the flower circlet on his hair. “I didn’t realise you could hear all of that, I am sorry.” Although technically it wasn’t his fault that she’d gone against Otabek’s request to go to bed and lingered in the flowerbed for longer than she should have, he still felt bad that she’d had to listen to Yakov scolding him. And he didn’t even want to think about the fact that Yakov had referred to Otabek as ‘half-dead’, he couldn’t even begin to apologise enough for that. “I…would appreciate if you kept this a secret from your brother. Just between you and I.” 

Aida blinked. “He already knows you’re engaged,” she said, tilting her head to one side. “We got a letter saying so, daddy said it seemed silly but I don’t know what he meant.” Whatever the king meant, Yuri found he had to agree with him – the whole engagement, the whole marriage, was ridiculous. 

Yuri sighed softly. “I don’t want him to feel guilty that I was scolded,” he explained. “If you tell him what you saw, he might feel guilty that he did not stay behind and walk back to the palace with me.” He bit his lip and looked at her intently. “Please?” It was obvious that Otabek had a lot on his mind already, with a painful injury and the weight on his shoulders of being at Russia’s whim, so he didn’t want to burden him with the knowledge that their trip to the gardens had caused Yuri any trouble. 

For a moment Aida looked as though she were considering the request, then she nodded with the same childish smile as before and slipped her pinkie finger around his, squeezing tightly. “I promise,” she said. “Just our secret.” It seemed as though she were happy enough at the idea of having a secret with Yuri to overlook the fact that she was keeping it from her brother, and Yuri let out a small breath of relief. 

Not long after that, around midday, a slightly portly woman wearing a plain grey dress and a white apron emerged from the palace. She had rounded cheeks that were a little flushed pink, and kind brown eyes framed by thick lashes and even thicker eyebrows. It turned out she was Aida’s governess, and after some baiting and bribing, she convinced Aida to abandon her post beside Yuri to go inside for a rest. Apparently the heat wasn’t good for her in too large a dose, and the governess had been instructed to get her to lie down and sleep for at least an hour so she would be refreshed and on her best behaviour for dinner that night. Yuri assured her he was fine being alone for a while so she could sleep, handing her book back to her and promising her he would tell Otabek she wanted the ending reading to her when he returned. She disappeared inside with her hand holding the governess’, book clasped firmly to her chest. 

Yuri wasn’t alone for nearly as long as he would have liked. Almost as soon as he’d gone back to lying down in the sun, a shadow fell across him and the scent of various perfumes permeated the more natural, light scent of the flowers that he’d been enjoying for the past few hours. He blinked an eye open and was met with the wide skirts of two different dresses, one a pale lilac colour and the other a familiar mint green, swishing lightly in the gentlest of breezes. “What a pretty crown, I wish I had one like that.” Mila. Of course. 

His cousin was standing with an elegant lace parasol above her head to protect her delicate skin from the sun, twirling it in gloved hands. A bright smile was on her face and he soon saw why, as she was standing with four young people who looked to be around her age, a rare occurrence for a girl who lived a sheltered life in a palace. There were two men, one of whom looked to be almost irritated and the other of whom wore the largest grin Yuri had ever seen. And then there was the woman in the lilac dress, who was admittedly incredibly beautiful – dark black hair and deep brown eyes that were so dark they looked almost black. He realised where he’d seen them before – at the ball, the people Mila had been looking for when he’d left her to dance with Otabek. And all four of them were staring down at him. 

“I was with the princess,” Yuri explained, standing up. His limbs were a little stiff from sitting on the ground for so long so he stretched ever so slightly up on his toes, telling himself it definitely wasn’t an attempt to close the awful gap between his height and the heights of Mila’s new companions. He didn’t have the heart to remove the crown, so he left it there, really uncaring of how these people perceived him. 

Mila nodded. “I see. I’m rather jealous.” She smiled and shook her head, gesturing behind her to the two men. “Yuri, this is Michele Crispino and his…friend, Emil Nekola.” She linked her arm through the arm of the girl standing next to her, who seemed to step closer to her in response – as close as their large skirts would allow, anyway. “And this is Sara Crispino. She and Mickey are twins, isn’t that interesting? Their father is the ambassador to Kazakhstan.” She smiled proudly. “This is my cousin, His Highness Yuri Plisetsky.” 

Yuri scowled. Mila knew how much he hated his title, especially when it was used mockingly like that. “A pleasure to meet you all,” he muttered, fully intending on turning around and going back inside the palace to be alone before Sara reached out and grabbed his arm. If possible, Michele’s constipated expression became even more pained the second his sister’s hand made contact with his sleeve. 

“We were going to play cards in the conservatory, won’t you join us?” Sara’s voice sounded the way Mila’s did when she was trying to get her way with something, and Yuri found it a little off-putting. He couldn’t imagine wanting to spend time around a conversation between her and Mila, it would be unbearably simpering and wheedling. He decided that two men for company was already more than enough for them, and he was about to say so when two servants walked around the back of the palace and stopped him in his tracks, talking to each other in voices much too loud for the nature of the conversation they were having. 

One of them, a gangly-looking male who had two dead pheasants slung over his shoulder on strings, was building up a story with such enthusiasm he could have been reciting a Shakespearian tragedy. “It was a bloody disaster!” he declared, throwing his arms out wide enough to make the pheasants bounce precariously. “I saw the whole thing, I was the one who had to keep reloading for him. Didn’t hit a single bird, not one. Hands were shaking like a fucking leaf.” 

His companion, a waifish woman in a plain black dress with the sleeves pushed carelessly up to her elbows, belly-laughed and threw her head back. “Nothing?! Even I could do better than that! What did the King say? I bet he was humiliated.”

The man shook his head, and Yuri imagined that if he’d been close enough to see his face, he would have been wearing an expression of scorn. “His highness was understanding about the whole mess. More than Mr Maksatov, anyway – he was effing and blinding, calling the prince a coward. And I have to agree with him! What kind of soldier can’t even shoot a bloody deer?” And with that, the two servants rounded a corner at the side of the palace and disappeared through the staff entrance into the kitchens. 

Michele’s expression was stony. “Not very subtle, are they?” he muttered.

Yuri swallowed a lump in his throat, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me,” he said quietly, removing his arm from Sara’s hold and heading up the stone steps back into the palace. He used the marble hand rail to guide him, placing his fingers where Otabek had rested his forehead the night before. He wasted no time in making his way to the entrance hall at the very front of the palace in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the hunting party that had just returned.

What he hadn’t expected, however, was to run directly into Otabek as he was entering through the large double doors. He looked strikingly handsome and masculine in a way he hadn’t when he’d been dressed up for the ball; he was wearing sturdy outdoor clothes and he was covered in sweat from the exertion of the hunt, his hair matted against his forehead and his face glistening. He was limping as he made his way inside, and Yuri’s chest ached a little. His face looked so drawn and tight, eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown until he glanced up and saw Yuri staring at him, at which point his features relaxed. However Otabek wasn’t looking at his face, he was looking a little higher, and Yuri realised once again that he’d been caught wearing the flower crown. 

“Beautiful,” Otabek commented, a small smile curling the edges of his lips up. He still looked so tired, but Yuri could tell that smile was genuine. “I see Aida had her way with you.” 

Yuri nodded, reaching up to carefully touch the daisies. “I’m sure she would make you one too, don’t be too jealous.” He bit his lip and lowered his hand, fidgeting with the sleeve of his shirt. Somehow it had seemed so much easier to talk to him last night, when he knew for sure they were alone – now, knowing that Otabek was aware of his engagement, it felt as though Jean-Jacques and Yakov were a constant presence between them even when they weren’t physically there. “Did you have a good hunt?”

Otabek was about to open his mouth to reply, only to be rudely interrupted by a man Yuri could only take to be Maksatov, who scoffed loudly as he waddled through the doors. He was a hideous man whose appearance reminded Yuri of a toad without putting any real consideration into it, and he thought to himself how unfortunate a face someone had to have to be so easily likened to a fat, slimy animal. He approached the pair of them and said, “Hardly! We won’t be eating venison tonight, that much is for sure.” His beady eyes settled on Yuri and his scowl transformed into a smarmy, shit-eating smile. “Ah, your highness! My, you look so much older.” There was a disgusting crooning note to his voice that made Yuri want to squirm where he stood in discomfort. Perhaps this Maksatov man was less informed than Otabek about his engagement, and fancied himself as having a chance with Yuri if only he flattered him enough. He was wrong. “You must have been about seven when I saw you last.”

“Mm. That must be why I have absolutely no recollection of you,” Yuri said flatly, his voice as monotonous as the expression on his face was blank. 

Maksatov seemed to take the intended offence, muttering something to himself about dry heat and attitude before disappearing up the staircase. Yuri didn’t watch him leave, the sounds of his heavy footsteps and laboured breathing proof enough that he was gone.

“I don’t like venison anyway.” The voice surprised Yuri, since he’d been so wrapped up in watching Otabek’s myriad of subtle expressions to notice the King approaching them. “Nasty, much too gamey. Your mother will much prefer the duck from the market.” He gave his son’s shoulder a squeeze, his face nothing but warmth as it had been when he’d greeted the Russians the day before. Otabek was very fortunate if he was going to age like his father – the pair of them were both handsome, time was no enemy to them. 

Otabek gave his father a small nod, his features set in a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. “How did my sister treat you today?” he asked, turning his gaze to Yuri to divert the conversation away from himself. So it was true what the servants had said – Otabek, for whatever reason, had failed to kill anything on their hunt despite the fact they had been out for hours. “I hope she didn’t wear you out.” This earned a laugh from the King, one that sounded so strikingly genuine Yuri was unable to think for a minute. Was he so unused to people’s joy being sincere that it threw him that much? It was rather sad to consider. 

“She was a delight,” he said eventually, a knowing little smile creeping onto his face. “I read to her, and she told me about a certain musical habit you’ve kept a secret until now.” Yuri’s eyes were bright and lively, and he felt a little rush of glee at the look of surprise that crossed the prince’s face.

Otabek’s cheeks flushed, and the King beamed. “I’m sure Otabek would be honoured to play for you, your highness,” he said, giving his son’s shoulder a gentle little shake. “I’m afraid my son has inherited modesty from both myself and his mother and now he has far too much of it – he really is wonderful, we all love to hear him play.”

“Please, call me Yuri, your majesty. We are in your home and you do outrank me, after all.” He smiled and nodded. “If Prince Otabek would do me the kindness of playing for me, I would love to hear it. I’m afraid my parents don’t really appreciate music, but my cousin Mila adores it – perhaps after dinner you would be generous enough to excuse him from drinks so he could demonstrate his skills?” Yuri reached out and gently lay a hand on Otabek’s arm, deciding it was safe to do so in full view of his father – what better chaperone to ensure no improper conduct than the king of Kazakhstan himself?

Otabek sighed softly, his eyes sliding to look at Yuri in a very put-upon way that forced him to stifle a laugh. “One song, perhaps,” he conceded, after a long pause. “I’m sure I could be persuaded.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	10. A Game of Chess

Dinner that evening was a relatively quiet affair. Yuri didn’t think he’d ever seen someone looked so chagrined to be eating duck as Maksatov – the man looked like the bird had personally insulted him and called his mother a whore, simply because it wasn’t the venison he’d been hoping for. Pathetic man – if he’d wanted a deer that badly, he could have killed it himself. Everyone else was eating without complaint, servants making their rounds of the table to pour wine into glasses that were looking a little empty and passing serving dishes from the centre of the table out to whoever required them. Candles provided low light and talking was generally kept to a minimum, mostly provided by Mila and her apparently good friend Sara.

Yuri was seated across from Otabek, and the pair kept glancing up at each other by accident whenever they looked for a servant to pour their drinks or to their respective parents to answer a question. At some point during the evening Yuri’s foot had accidentally nudged Otabek’s under the table, and Otabek had shot him a tiny smile before nudging right back, and they’d been carrying on like that ever since. It was, perhaps, an unfair battle considering Otabek did have a leg injury, but his ankles were fine and so a kicking war was perfectly within his capabilities. That being said, Yuri was winning, and he was very proud of it.

And so, when Otabek suddenly looked towards his father and stopped kicking Yuri, the Russian prince took it to mean that he’d successfully defeated him and won the battle. He took a triumphant sip of his wine, ignoring the smug expression on Mila’s face from just beside him that said she knew full well what had been going on under the table for the past ten minutes.

“Father?” Otabek caught everyone’s attention with just one word, and suddenly all eyes were on him. Especially Yakov; it seemed as though ever since he’d found Otabek and Yuri in the gardens on the night of the ball, he’d been determined to keep a sharp eye on Otabek as though he expected him to lunge across the table and try to ravish Yuri right there in front of everyone. In a way, Yuri wished it would happen purely for the benefit of seeing Yakov pop a blood vessel. “I was wondering if I might be able to take Yuri to see the summer house for the rest of the week. The weather is so nice and I think it’s hard to appreciate it properly in the gardens here.” Did…did he look at Yakov when he said that? Yuri was sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, he could have sworn Otabek shot Yakov a look that was quite clearly weighted with meaning.

The King set down his fork and hummed thoughtfully. Yuri already trusted Otabek’s father in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever trusted Yakov, and from what he could see, the trust was mutual – the King saw Otabek as mature and reliable, not some delicate child like how Yakov saw Yuri. “It would be a good time to visit,” he admitted. “It’s the right time in the season for the lilies to be in bloom – they’re our national flower, Your Highness.” He was back to using Yuri’s title again, but Yuri supposed it was necessary in front of Yakov, who would probably find it deeply offensive if Yuri’s given name was used instead. “However, it is not my decision. It is entirely up to our guests.”

Yakov looked as though he was prepared to offer an immediate ‘no’, but fortunately it was Lilia who spoke first. It occurred to Yuri that Yakov may not have told her that he’d found he and Otabek in the gardens, either to protect her from worrying about her son’s innocence or because he felt he’d dealt with the matter himself. Which was probably why Lilia had no problem with saying, “What a gracious offer, we regret that Yuri isn’t as well-travelled as his brother.” A lot happened at once when she said that – Yakov visibly tensed, Mila slipped her hand into Yuri’s, and Yuri dropped his gaze to his knees to hide his scowl. Lilia pressed on, her voice tight and forcibly polite, “I see no issue, provided of course they are under supervision, for Yuri’s safety of course.” It was a clever way of ensuring they had chaperones without her having to say ‘I am worried Otabek will attack my son’, by disguising it as concern for his safety as heir to the throne.

“I could go with them as a chaperone, Aunt Lilia.” Mila gave Yuri’s hand a squeeze before letting go. “In fact, perhaps Otabek wouldn’t mind if the twins and Emil accompanied us as well? Surely the more people travelling with Yuri, the safer he will be, and it would give you all a chance to talk without us getting in your way. I’m sure there are matters of business to be discussed.” Her eyes slid over to Maksatov when she said that, although he was too consumed with ripping into the flesh of his duck with his yellowed teeth to notice her.

Across from Yuri, Otabek nodded and cleared his throat quietly. His cheeks were a little pink, and it was clear that Lilia’s attempt at subtlety hadn’t worked on him for even a moment. “Of course,” he said. “It would be nice to spend more time with everyone, it’s very kind of you to offer to give up your time to come with us, Countess.” He was looking at Mila, and there was an expression on his face that, when Yuri looked, he found mirrored on Mila’s. Their eyes were bright and they were barely concealing smiles, and it struck Yuri very suddenly that perhaps it was Mila who Otabek wanted to spend his time with, and inviting Yuri was simply a guise so as not to appear too eager. The thought didn’t sit well with him at all, and he set down his fork, suddenly uninterested in eating anything else.

Lilia nodded. “In that case, I see no reason why it would be a problem. We leave on Friday so you must be back in plenty of time before then, but you will have several days to enjoy the sun.” It was a lie – Lilia was always telling Mila and Yuri how they should value and treasure their pale, milky-white skin, always encouraging them to use parasols or wide-brimmed hats to ensure they wouldn’t catch some of the tan that suited Otabek and Aida so beautifully. Yuri was sure if he came back from their week in the country with even the slightest hint of colour, Lilia would insist he stayed inside for weeks once they got back to St Petersburg to try and reverse the damage.

The rest of the dinner passed in relative silence. Dessert was brought around, a variety of sweet things that were ice-based to help everyone cool down after the sweltering day. Yuri didn’t eat anything, too occupied looking back and forth between Mila and Otabek, who didn’t speak but continued to glance up at each other knowingly every now and then. At one point Otabek leaned over a little and said, “Aren’t you hungry? You’ve barely touched anything,” to which Yuri remained completely silent and averted his eyes so he wasn’t looking in his direction. He didn’t miss the slightly hurt look on Otabek’s face, nor did he react to it. Yuri felt that his face was set in a permanent scowl until they were finally dismissed, and even then he walked a good deal behind everyone else as they made their way from the dining room. The more senior adults among them made for the drawing room to take drinks and talk, while Otabek led those who were younger to a second room a little further up in the palace, one which contained a beautiful grand piano made of dark mahogany.

Aida, on her insistence that her nap earlier had energised her and that she wasn’t tired, had been allowed to join them. She stood with her brother as they chose some sheet music for Otabek to play, and Yuri was quite content to stand off in a corner and sulk until Mila came up to bother him. He didn’t understand why he was so upset by the thought that something could be going on between her and Otabek – it was none of his business. He was engaged, whether he liked it or not, and it wasn’t as though he had any sort of special claim over Otabek. But that still didn’t stop him despising the idea of them being any closer than simple friends.

“Play chess with me,” Mila said, laying a hand on his arm and pulling him from his thoughts. When he looked up, Yuri saw that Sara and Michele were already engaged in a game of chess across the other side of the room, with Emil eagerly watching and clicking the small timer for them whenever it was needed. Yuri sighed and reluctantly followed Mila to the other table that contained a board, taking a moment to admire the pieces. Back in St Petersburg their chess sets were made of ivory and trimmed with gold around the base, whereas the set here was fashioned from wood, and the pieces felt pleasantly weighted in his hand when he picked one up.

At the piano, Otabek started to play and the quiet music filled the room. It was beautiful – not a piece that Yuri recognised, but calm and pleasant all the same. It didn’t demand the attention of the room, so the chess games continued, however Aida was already twirling and stepping in a childlike imitation of ballet positions. After a little while, Emil removed himself from the twins’ chess game and stood in front of Aida, bowing deeply before offering her his hand with a grin, which she took so they could dance together.

Yuri realised he’d been so caught up in watching them that he’d forgotten to take his first turn, so he sighed and moved a pawn two squares forward. Mila took her turn, and instantly captured the pawn he’d just moved out, placing it on her side of the table. “You’re distracted,” she observed, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb Otabek’s playing.

“I’m tired,” Yuri lied, trying again by moving out the knight from where it had previously been trapped behind the pawn. They played in silence for a little while, Yuri paying more attention now that Mila was clearly watching him for any odd behaviour. He could feel her eyes on him the entire time they played, and every time she reached out to tap the clock beside her, she didn’t look away from him. Eventually, he decided to speak just to try and break her intense focus. “You and Otabek seem close,” he said, aiming to sound nonchalant but admittedly failing.

Mila raised an eyebrow. “I see,” she murmured, moving one of her pieces and neatly knocking one of Yuri’s bishops over. She plucked it from the board and set it alongside her ever-growing collection of white pieces, and Yuri rolled his eyes. “You’re wondering why I offered to chaperone. You’re worried he wants m…”

“I’m not worried, you hag,” Yuri snapped, realising immediately after he’d spoken that his voice had perhaps been a little too loud. His cheeks burned and he glanced over his shoulder, relieved when he saw that Otabek’s back was still turned as he focused on the piano, Emil was still swinging Aida around, and the twins hadn’t looked up from their game. He lowered his voice as he continued, “If the Prince likes you then it’s none of my business, you know I’m engaged to Jean-Jacques.”

The corner of Mila’s lips tugged up a little. “He told me earlier that he wanted to invite you to the summer house,” she whispered, leaning in closer to ensure that nobody overheard. “He asked me to volunteer. Imagine if a servant went with you – the pair of you wouldn’t be allowed to talk in private for a minute, Yakov would give them strict instructions to hover over your shoulders constantly. Or worse still, imagine if Yakov insisted on being present himself. You’re fortunate Aunt Lilia trusts me enough to allow me to go in the place of someone else. But believe me, Yuri, myself and the twins and Emil – we have no intention of going to the summer house.”

Yuri’s eyes snapped up to look at her, finally, and he frowned, “What do you mean?” he whispered, completely missing his turn and clicking the clock anyway just to get it to stop ticking.

Mila laughed softly. “We’ll accompany you as far as the house, and that is where we will leave you. The twins have been coming here with their father since they were young, they know of a lovely set of apartments in the town that we can stay in, and it will be a perfect opportunity for me to shop, see sights…and an opportunity for you and Otabek to be alone.” She bit her lip and reached across the table to put a hand on her arm. “Otabek told me about what happened in the gardens the night of the ball. He said Uncle Yakov found you there together – you’re alright, aren’t you?”

Yuri nodded, and he blinked, trying to sort his thoughts in his head. He felt guilty for having had such acidic thoughts about his cousin only minutes earlier, simply because he’d worried that she and Otabek might be involved. And now that the possibility of time spent alone with him was very real, he realised with a feeling that was equal parts excitement and dread that yes, he was beginning to have feelings for him. “I’m alright,” he said quietly. He met Mila’s eyes again and leaned in to whisper, “I don’t know what you expect to happen. You don’t think Otabek would…”

“I think,” Mila cut in gently, and they were leaning in so close by now that they were barely inches apart. “That Otabek is a gentleman, a considerate man and that his plan to be alone with you is purely for your own benefit, to give you time away from Yakov and your responsibilities. From everything Michele and Sara have told me about Otabek growing up, he never has anything but good intentions. He hasn’t invited you to the summer house to spoil you for your fiancé, I would be surprised if the thought of you and he…becoming intimate had even crossed his mind.” She reached out and propped a finger under Yuri’s chin, tilting his head up so he’d look at her. “However,” she continued softly, the corner of her mouth curling up a little. “I think that everyone deserves to feel happiness at some point in their lives. And in my opinion, your happiness does not have to come from your future husband.”

Yuri’s cheeks reddened and he averted his gaze, leaning back in his chair. It was at that point that he realised the music had stopped, and had been replaced by hushed conversations around the room. Emil had laid Aida down on a small sofa where she was sleeping soundly, and he was now talking with Otabek as they both leaned against the piano. Michele and Sara had left their chess table and were standing nearer the door, and it was clear that people were soon going to retire to bed. After all, if they were going to make a journey the following day, they would need to be well rested simply to survive the heat.

Sara extended an arm towards Mila and said something about walking her to her room, which Mila responded to with a surprising amount of enthusiasm. Once they had linked arms and left the room, quickly followed by Emil and Michele, the only people left in the room were Otabek, Yuri, and the sleeping Aida.

The silence was heavy.

Without speaking, Otabek stooped and gently curled his arms around his sister, lifting her from the sofa as though she weighed nothing. She didn’t stir, remaining fast asleep despite the movement, her pretty dinner dress gathered up in a bunch around her knees like a blanket. “I’m going to put her in her room,” Otabek said, startling Yuri out of his previous act of staring uncomfortably at the wall. Otabek looked unsure of himself all of a sudden, and Yuri realised that he’d been ignoring him all through dessert at dinner, feeling a spike of guilt run through him.

“I’ll come with you,” he said quickly, before he had a chance to mentally talk himself out of it. “You might need someone to open doors for you while you carry her.” He left the room and did as he said he would, holding open the heavy wooden door until Otabek had navigated his way through with Aida. They made slow progress up the grand staircase, considering Aida’s bedroom was right at the very top and Otabek struggled with stairs due to his injury. Yuri felt bad that he couldn’t be of more help, but he knew he wasn’t strong enough to carry Aida himself and at the risk of dropping her, he remained silent.

Once they got to the top floor, Yuri allowed Otabek to give him one-word directions down the right corridors until they finally arrived at her door. There was a small, pale pink wooden plaque nailed to the door that was decorated with Aida’s name in Kazakh lettering, surrounded by delicate drawings of white lilies in full bloom. Yuri had always thought white lilies were supposed to connote death and mourning, but this small plaque gave them a new meaning. He held the door for Otabek once again but didn’t go into the room with him, instead shutting the door behind them and waiting in the corridor for him to emerge.

He needed to say something. He knew he couldn’t, in good conscience, set out on the journey tomorrow without offering up some sort of apology for being so rude and distant at dinner. After all, Otabek had obviously put considerable thought into the following few days, and the last thing Yuri wanted was for him to suddenly feel uneasy about being alone with him and try to invite the others to come along after all. He wanted to be alone with Otabek, and that thought alone was causing Yuri all amounts of confusion. Was he attracted to him? Yes, of course he was. Otabek was handsome in a quiet, calm way – his beauty wasn’t ethereal or unattainable like Victor’s, wasn’t obnoxious or carefully polished like what he had seen of Jean-Jacques, but instead it was natural and strong. And he was kind to him, he treated him like he could speak for himself when everyone else in his life seemed to speak for him.

Yuri was pulled from his thoughts when the door to Aida’s bedroom clicked open again, and Otabek walked out. He glanced up and seemed surprised to find Yuri still standing there, clearly having expected him to run off and continue sulking as he had been during dessert. The look of surprise was so genuine and laid bare that it took Yuri a moment to recover, and he swallowed a thick lump in his throat before blurting out the first thing that came to mind, “How does it end? The Hero and the Fairy?”

If Otabek had been surprised before, it only became more evident now. Perhaps he’d been expecting Yuri to snap at him, or simply ignore him and walk away out of spite, or exhibit some other kind of brattish behaviour that Yuri had demonstrated earlier. Only now Yuri was being normal again, to some extent, asking about Aida’s book instead of any of the other more pressing things they could have talked about. He blinked and said, “You didn’t read it?”

Shaking his head, Yuri fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt, dropping his eyes to the floor. God, it was as though any progress they’d made towards friendship in the past two days had been nullified and reverted back to being strangers. And he had nobody to blame but himself, he was the one who’d let his temper and imagination run away with him and assume Mila would betray him by becoming close to Otabek. He was the one who’d allowed that mere possibility to eat him up and force him to alienate Otabek, even for a short while. This was why Yuri didn’t make friends easily, this was why his circle was limited to those in his family where Victor had always been able to extend his friendship group across continents. “Aida wanted you to read it,” he explained quietly. “It’s your story.”

A small smile ghosted over Otabek’s mouth, only for a moment. “Thank you,” he murmured. “It ends with the fairy turning into a human, and falling in love with the knight. All of Aida’s stories have a happily ever after. But I said I would only tell her when I came home. I thought…if I had to deliver the ending to her myself, in person, then I had to make it back here. I couldn’t die when I had to tell her the ending.”

It was such a sudden confession of such a profound concern that it caught Yuri off guard, and he looked up at him again through his eyelashes with a small frown. His knowledge of war was incredibly limited, bound by what he heard from Lilia and her advisors on the rare occasions he’d walked past her study when they discussed battle plans and manoeuvres. It had always sounded so calculated and controlled – move a troop here, withdraw from there, increase military presence in these areas – and he’d rarely considered what it would be like to be one of the men she was talking about, a soldier to be moved around a battlefield like a pawn on a chessboard. He’d never thought about how loud the gunfire would be, how constant. He’d never paid any mind to how exposed every one of those men must have felt, how they probably never knew if they would make it through a night to see another sunrise, or through a day to see another sunset. He was reminded with a crawling sense of unease of the first letter Jean-Jacques had ever sent to him, the final line he had written, “ _I apologise for the ink blot. A cannon was set off very close to my camp and it startled me._ ”

“I’m sorry.” The words slipped out of his mouth without him realising, and when Yuri looked at Otabek properly, he found that he was staring straight back. “For…for how I behaved earlier. I realise this is the second time I’ve had to tell you that I don’t usually have such a temper, and if I keep acting like this any apologies I give will begin to lose their meaning, I just…”

“You’re forgiven.” Otabek cut him off smoothly, so smoothly that it didn’t even seem rude. He was saving Yuri from what would surely have been a rambling and incessant apology that could have gone on for minutes and minutes. “I think perhaps I should have been a little clearer with what I meant, when I asked my father if I could take you to the summer house. Or I should have spoken to you first to see if it was something you would like. But I’m afraid after today’s hunt I couldn’t find the right words to…” He trailed off, raising a hand to rub at the back of his neck with such an expression of discomfort that Yuri felt his chest ache.

“What happened?” he asked quietly. He didn’t want to reveal to Otabek that servants had been gossiping about him behind his back, so he had to tread carefully when phrasing his next question. “Maksatov mentioned not eating venison – were you unable to find any deer? I imagine they don’t run around much in this heat, I expect they were probably resting somewhere so they were harder to…”

“We found plenty.” Otabek’s cheeks were slightly red and he was staring off to one side at the wall way down the end of the corridor. “We found plenty. I just…did not expect the sound of the guns to affect me so much.”

Yuri decided not to press it any further. He knew nothing of what was going on in Otabek’s head, and he assumed the only people who would understand were the men he’d been at war with – the ones who were fortunate enough to have made it through alive, that is. “Your father was right about the duck,” he said, with a small attempt at a smile. “It was lovely.” The air in the corridor felt heavy with the silence that stretched between them whenever one of them stopped talking. Yuri tried to think about what time it was, to work out in his head whether or not the adults would have finished their drinks and retired to bed yet. As far as he knew, none of them had bedrooms this high up in the palace, but that didn’t mean a servant wouldn’t walk past at any minute and see them talking.

After a period of uncomfortable quiet, Yuri said, “Mila told me that she plans to go to the town for the remainder of the week, with Emil and the twins. And that…we will be alone, at the summer house. Is that true, or was she simply trying to get a reaction from me?” He tried to make his voice sound light, but he failed miserably and simply ended up sound unsure and shy.

Otabek nodded, shuffling his feet a little. “I hope she didn’t phrase it in a way that made it sound as though I…as though we have to…” His face was even redder now than before, and he was beginning to stumble over his words. He paused and took a deep breath, then continued, “Only, I felt rather responsible that your father found us together in the gardens that night and I sincerely hope you weren’t in too much trouble because of it.” So Aida hadn’t told him what she’d seen, then, that was good. “And…Mila is a lovely girl but I know she likes to tease you a lot, she’s rather…energetic. The same goes for the twins and Emil. I thought perhaps you might like to be somewhere quiet for a little while, somewhere you won’t have anybody telling you what to do or commenting on the decisions you make. And I…I thought maybe you would like some company, which is why I would be going with you…if I’m wrong, though, please do tell me. If you would prefer to have the others with us for the whole time then of course we can ask them to…”

“No.” Yuri shook his head firmly, and after a second of deliberation, took a step closer to Otabek. “No, I’d like it to be you and I. It…” He let in a small breath. “It was very thoughtful of you to consider me like that. You…have no idea how long I have wanted to be away from people’s scrutiny.” They were standing so close, so very close. He could feel Otabek’s warm breath against his cheek when he turned his head, and even in the dim light from the two candles on the wall of the corridor, he could make out Otabek’s striking features due to their lack of distance.

Yuri didn’t give himself time to listen to reason. He reached up and gently held on to Otabek’s shoulders for a little leverage, stretching on to the tips of his toes. He hadn’t considered how awkward it might be to navigate the height difference when Otabek had no idea what he was trying to do, but he persevered, knowing that if he let such a little thing stop him now he would likely never try again. Once their faces were level, Yuri closed his eyes and leaned in close, and somehow in the dark their lips found each other. It was unhurried and tender, even once Otabek got over his initial frozen state of shock at what Yuri was doing. It took a second, but Otabek’s hand soon dropped to his waist, where he held him so lightly he could barely feel his touch through his jacket. His lips were soft and warm and full, hardly moving against Yuri’s but instead letting Yuri decide the direction to move forward. And Yuri did try; emboldened by the hand on his waist, he took Otabek’s lower lip between his and gave it the gentlest of tugs, hyperaware of the small intake of breath he heard in response.

He would have done more, he would have asked for more if he’d had the time. But just as Yuri had been about to loop both arms around his neck, the sound of a door closing loudly down the next corridor across from them had them wrenching apart from each other, Yuri’s back pressed to the wall and Otabek reaching up to rub a hand over his face as though he could erase all evidence that he’d touched Yuri that way. They stared at each other with eyes that were wide with fear, and Yuri was the first one to take the initiative to turn and walk away.

Part of him wished he’d said something before he left. Said goodnight, or apologised for being so forward, or asked what it meant for them now. He hadn’t gone to find Otabek with the intention of doing that, he’d only gone to apologise to him and help him return Aida to her bed. And yet now it had happened – he’d been more intimate with Otabek than he’d ever been with his official fiancé, and he couldn’t find even a shred of guilt within him about that fact. All he could feel as he walked hurriedly back to his room was a tingling sensation in his lips and a lingering heat on his waist from Otabek’s hand, probably imagined but no less exciting.

Down in the entrance hall he could hear the familiar voices of Lilia and Yakov as they left the drawing room and made their way up the staircase to their set of rooms, and Yuri took it upon himself to pick up his walking pace and run the last few steps to his bedroom. As soon as he’d pulled the door open and shut himself securely inside, he went to the bed and sat there, fully clothed, unable to think about undressing and getting ready for bed or choosing clothes to bring on their journey the following day. He was unable to think of anything besides the fact that he had just kissed Prince Otabek Altin, and any guilt he should have felt was entirely overruled by the desire for it to happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	11. The Summer House

Much to Yuri’s disappointment, Otabek didn’t mention the kiss when they met up the following morning in the palace courtyard. Logically he supposed it would have been impossible for him to say anything, with Mila and their other companions for the day all gathered around them, along with the cluster of servants who were busy fastening bags and bundles to the saddles of horses. But somewhere in the back of his mind he’d still been holding on to some small hope that perhaps Otabek would choose to kiss him again, or at the very least touch him in some way. However, when he walked over to him, Otabek simply raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare and offered him a smile in greeting. 

“Did you send your bag down to the servants this morning?” he asked, in lieu of a ‘hello’. “They’re just fixing the last of them to the horses, then we can be on our way. I’m glad you chose something light to wear, it’s only going to get hotter outside around midday.” He ran his eyes over what Yuri was wearing, and Yuri couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that it was the most attention Otabek had paid him yet, and it was to his clothes rather than to himself. 

Yuri had opted for a very light white shirt that day, refusing to suffer through the pain of the heat by wearing a jacket simply for the sake of formality. He was fairly sure that nobody in their little procession would mind that he wasn’t properly dressed, and a quick cursory glance around the courtyard told him that Michele and Emil were dressed in similar styles, as was Otabek, and even the girls had relinquished their usual heavy skirts in favour of something a little lighter, a little more modest. Yuri had also chosen to braid his hair down his back to keep it from sticking to his face with sweat, and he’d borrowed one of Mila’s ribbons to keep it in place. “Is it a long journey?” he asked, dragging his eyes back to Otabek. 

“Not too long,” he murmured, wandering over to his horse now that all the bags were attached. It was a beautiful animal, strong and muscular with shining, jet black hair. “We should arrive in the early afternoon, we’ll have time to explore the house before dinner.” Otabek patted his horse’s shoulder, and Yuri ventured closer to run his fingers softly through its mane. Yuri’s own horse was a pure white colour, a stark contrast to Otabek’s, and they looked quite handsome standing there together in the bright sun. “The others will have lunch with us,” Otabek said quietly, his voice lower in tone as he inclined his head towards Yuri. “And then once we set off again, we will go our separate ways.” 

A small smile came over Yuri’s face, and he felt colour rise to his cheeks completely unrelated to the heat. “Then we should go now,” he murmured, glancing up at Otabek from under his eyelashes. “So we aren’t late to stop for lunch.” He drew away and approached his own horse, allowing one of the servants to offer a hand to help him up into the saddle. Once he was seated with his feet in the stirrups, he watched as Otabek, Michele and Emil all mounted as well, Mila and Sara following behind after some negotiation with their skirts. Decorum dictated they should ride side-saddle, something that would slow their journey and make the entire group unable to gallop, but it was unavoidable with the way they were dressed. 

Once they were all saddled and ready to leave, the servants at the end of the courtyard opened the gates and Otabek drew out in front to lead the group, although Michele rode close by his side. Yuri could hear them talking quietly as they began their journey, and he wondered what they were discussing. It occurred to him that, if Michele and Sara’s father was the ambassador to Kazakhstan, it was very likely that they had grown up around Otabek, being of a similar age. They had likely been friends for a long time, and that realisation warmed Yuri to the twins in a way that he hadn’t been before. It also provided a little explanation as to why Michele had been so irritated when they’d heard the servants gossiping about Otabek the evening before – he was probably rather protective over him. 

Mila devoted much of her time to riding beside Sara, the pair of them laughing and whispering and exchanging secrets that could probably bring down nations if put to good use. Emil somehow seemed content to simply ride behind Otabek and Michele and wait for them to occasionally throw him a bone to join their conversation, which left Yuri at the very back of the procession to amuse himself. He wasn’t too put out – after all, soon the others would leave them and he would have Otabek to himself for several days, so why deny Michele some time with him now? Besides, the route of their journey was already turning out to be particularly beautiful, on a winding path through tall trees that let sunlight filter through the leaves without blasting him with such an intense heat. Occasionally there would be a break in the tree cover and he would catch a glimpse of the mountains not too far in the distance, perplexingly still topped with snow even on such a beautiful day. 

At one point, around four hours into their travels, Mila dropped back to speak with him while Emil and Sara were wrapped up in conversation. Yuri’s cousin was looking at him with an expression that seemed altogether too smug for his comfort, and he shifted awkwardly under her gaze. “What do you want?” he demanded, trying to keep his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear them. “Stop staring at me, it’s so off-putting.” He tried digging his heels into his horse’s flank just a little to get it to move faster, however Mila easily caught up to him. 

“I hear something interesting happened last night,” she teased, reaching out and tugging on the end of Yuri’s braid as though they were still children. “Otabek is telling Michele that you disappeared upstairs with him…”

Yuri scoffed. “Don’t be so vulgar,” he muttered. “I’m sure he didn’t put it in a way that makes it sound so suggestive. Princess Aida fell asleep in the drawing room and he carried her up to her bedroom, and I went with him to open doors. If that is your idea of a scandal then I worry you don’t have nearly enough excitement in your life.” He leaned down to adjust one of the bags on the side of the horse’s saddle, making sure it didn’t slip too low. They hadn’t wanted to bring servants with them, as it would be far too easy for them to report back to the King, Queen and Yuri’s parents that their chaperones were abandoning them halfway, so they’d elected to forego carriages and instead just take everything they needed on horseback. It was a little more difficult, but it would ultimately be for the best. Otabek had assured him there were servants at the summer house who would cook their meals for them and change their bed linens, but apparently those servants all lived in a nearby village and travelled to the house each day to work as opposed to living on-site like they did at the palace, so it would be harder for them to keep track of whether Mila and the others were there or not. 

Mila giggled, shaking her head. Usually her hair was pinned into such an elaborate style that it didn’t budge, but that day she’d chosen to wear it down in loose curls around her shoulders that shook and bounced every time she moved her head. It seemed that once they were freed from palace regulations, all six of them were content to be a little more free with their appearances. “Did anything happen?” she asked, arching her eyebrow with a smirk. “You can tell me, Yuri, we’re family.” 

“That’s hardly a compelling argument,” Yuri retorted. “Mama and Papa are family, but you would have to torture me to get me to tell them that Otabek and I kissed…” He instantly realised his mistake, his hands tightening into fists around his reins and his face colouring a dark red that was all the more obvious in the natural light outside. He was irritated that he’d risen to Mila’s teasing and manipulation, he should have known better. 

“Oh!” she squealed happily, clapping her hands in a move that had Yuri wondering how she didn’t just slide straight off the side of her horse. Her skirt was made of some kind of slippery silk material, and the only thing holding her up surely had to be her grasp on the reins. “Yuri, I’m so surprised! After all the fuss you made about Victor, it seems you’ve rather followed his example.” She was either oblivious to the dagger she’d just dug into his chest or she didn’t care, as she continued, “And with your engagement too, you truly are scandalous, aren’t you? Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of you kissing anyone before – did you know how to do it?” 

Yuri refused to look at her. “Of course I knew how to do it, everyone knows how to do that,” he snapped, although in truth, it was dawning on him that maybe he really didn’t know what he was doing. Kissing Otabek the night before had been an impulse decision and he’d moved very quickly, and a chill ran through him as he considered the possibility that it had been an awful experience. Yuri had been so full of adrenaline and determination that he hadn’t exactly noticed how it felt, but maybe for Otabek it had been terrible? “Besides,” he muttered, trying to force himself to think of anything else. “It’s none of your business.” 

Mila threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, you’re sweet,” she breathed, trotting ahead to catch up with Mila. Before she completely left him, she glanced over her shoulder and called back, “I’m impressed, cousin, truly!” Then she reached out to touch Sara’s arm, drawing her attention away from Emil and back to whatever they’d been discussing before she’d gone to pester Yuri. 

For another hour, Yuri rode in complete silence and kept his head down. He could hear Otabek’s hushed conversation with Michele and Mila’s obnoxiously boisterous conversation with Sara and Emil, though he made no effort whatsoever to participate in either. In fact he was so completely focused on watching the ground that he almost walked directly into the back of Sara’s horse when the procession suddenly ground to a halt, and when he glanced up he realised that Otabek had dismounted and was walking towards him. 

Yuri straightened up in his saddle a little and tried his best to look as though he hadn’t been sulking. “Is everything alright?” he asked, once Otabek was within earshot. “Is one of the horses injured?” 

“No, everything is fine,” Otabek said calmly, pausing beside Yuri’s saddle and leaning just a little against his horse’s shoulder. Yuri wondered if perhaps his leg was bothering him – after all, sitting astride a horse would put strain on the area near his hip, and that was where Otabek had been injured. “We’ve been travelling for five hours now, are you hungry? We’re close to the Kolsai lakes, they’re just through those trees there. We can let the horses rest and drink.” He held a hand up to help Yuri dismount, which he took and slid down carefully to land on the soft forest floor beside Otabek. 

Michele went to help Sara down from her horse and Emil placed his hands on Mila’s waist to pull her down also, which had her giggling in that irritating high pitch. The six of them walked their horses the rest of the way through the trees, since it was a little trickier along such a narrow path to stay mounted, and before long the forest gave way to one of the most beautiful pieces of scenery Yuri had ever seen in his life. Tall, green mountains framed a deep, clear expanse of turquoise water, the sun glinting off the ripples and throwing light like gold. Soft grass ran along the bank of the still lake and there wasn’t a single cloud to be seen in the sky, and the smell of wildflowers permeated the fresh air. 

Yuri couldn’t help it. He abandoned his horse and wandered closer to the edge of the lake, completely in awe at what he was seeing. It was so beautiful, so unreal, like something he would expect to find in Aida’s storybook. Of course there was the lake in the grounds back at the palace in St Petersburg, the one he used to skate on when it froze over, but even in the summer months it never looked like this – it was generally murky with silt and the water reflected the ever-present grey clouds above. Here, though, Yuri felt as though the water was so clear he could sink to the bottom and still be able to breathe. 

“Be careful,” a warm voice spoke next to his ear, and he glanced up to see Otabek standing with the reins for both he and Yuri’s horses in his hands. “It’s very deep.” He walked over to one of the trees nearby and carefully tied the horses up so they wouldn’t be able to wander off, but would still be able to drink from the lake. “There’s a lake at the summer house too. Not nearly as big or beautiful as this one, but it will work if you’d like to swim.” Otabek held his hand out for Yuri to take, and after staring at it for a second Yuri gently slid his fingers through Otabek’s and allowed him to lead him back to the group. 

Michele and Emil were in the process of unloading their wicker basket of food supplies from the back of Emil’s horse while Mila and Sara spread out a large blanket over the grass. It would have been soft and dry enough to just sit on the ground, but he wouldn’t complain at being able to lie back if he wanted and look up at the sky. Otabek drifted off to go and help the boys with their food, so Yuri took his place on the blanket and stretched his legs out in front of him. Once the food was brought back and unpacked, Yuri surveyed what their options were. There was fruit, some bread with cream cheese, various small cakes and sweetmeats among other things. There was also wine, and Yuri poured some out for himself in one of the small cups they’d been able to bring with them. 

“You ought to be careful with that, Yuri,” Mila teased, hiding her grin behind the rim of her own glass. “We wouldn’t want you to get too carried away, now would we?”

“So says the woman who can’t walk properly in her own dress when she’s drunk,” Yuri retorted immediately without missing a beat. From just beside him, Otabek chuckled softly and turned his head away to look out over the lake. Yuri smirked. 

Sara watched the exchange with a little smile on her face, finishing the grape she’d been eating before leaning back on her hands comfortably. “I don’t know, I think it might be quite entertaining to see Prince Yuri drunk. Or at the very least, hear some stories. I’m sure there are lots of secrets the palace of St Petersburg has been hiding, why not share?” She giggled, the same annoying giggle that Mila let out whenever someone was flirting with her. Except nobody was flirting, they were just sitting having lunch with birds chirping overhead, and she was taking it upon herself to entertain as though they were at a party.

“Oh, I’m afraid there’s nothing exciting to tell,” Mila sighed dramatically, laying down with her head pillowed on Sara’s skirt. Yuri didn’t miss Michele’s entire body tensing up where he was sat beside Emil, but he didn’t comment, and neither did anybody else. “Yuri is awfully boring at home, even when he’s been drinking. He just gets very silly and laughs a lot before he falls asleep – sometimes he dances but that’s about the worst of it. Which I find strange, because I feel that most often it is the men who behave so rashly when they are drunk, don’t you?”

Sara laughed and placed a hand on Mila’s head. “Oh really? That sounds as though you’re speaking from experience, Countess. Would you care to tell us a story?” Her voice was lilting and teasing, and Yuri wondered if perhaps there was something about the sun or their environment that was making the wine go to their heads more quickly than they were accustomed to. 

Mila snickered and shook her head. “Oh, nothing,” she said nonchalantly. “I just recall a number of times men have been so forward with me because they were drunk that I truly didn’t know what to say. I feel as though on several occasions I may have laughed at them, which I’m sure hurt their pride irreparably if they could remember it once they were sober. But really, what is a young woman meant to do when a man approaches her after a ball, takes himself out of his trousers and demands to know what I plan to do with it!”

Michele’s drink spluttered out of his mouth, barely caught by the glass in his hand. Emil was holding his sides and cackling, and Yuri’s jaw was hanging wide open. Mila seemed ridiculously pleased to have elicited such a reaction from the group, and she giggled into her hand with a blush on her cheeks that matched the pink wildflowers among the grass. Sara was the only one who seemed entirely nonplussed, although she was smiling as she said, “Good God, don’t act all innocent.” She threw her dark hair back over one shoulder and a smug air came over her appearance. “I could have told him exactly what to do with it.” 

Michele’s face turned a similar colour to his wine, and Yuri glanced down to see that he was gripping his glass so tightly his knuckles had turned white. It was a wonder the delicate stem of the thing hadn’t completely snapped already, and when he looked around he noticed Otabek staring at it too, probably wondering the same thing. Using Mila’s promiscuous conversation as a distraction Yuri inched closer and leaned his back against Otabek’s side, deciding he could do so under the pretence of being tired if Otabek asked. But he didn’t, he simply put one of his strong arms out behind Yuri’s back to give him a better surface to lean against and angled his body towards him. 

“And what is that, Sara?” Michele was asking, his voice as tight as the grip on the glass. Yuri could see a little nerve jumping in his clenched jaw. 

Sara glanced up at her brother and smiled sweetly, fluttering her thick lashes like the picture of innocence and virtue. “Put it back in his trousers where it belongs,” she said, then proceeded to stick her tongue out at him and roll her eyes. “At least when I act like a prude it’s quite clear I don’t mean it. You, Miss Mila, mustn’t pretend to be so oblivious. One day a man will believe you and try to take advantage.”

Yuri narrowed his eyes. “Mila, you haven’t…” When he got no other reply than a smug smile, his eyes widened and he leaned forward in surprise. “You have! You kept that quiet!” 

“Well of course I did!” Mila said, sitting up and smoothing down her curls. “You know what Mama and Aunt Lilia would do to me if they ever found out. They would skin me alive and hang me above the fireplace like a hunting trophy – my little plaque would read ‘harlot’.” She grinned and reached over to pluck a small pink cake from the basket, biting into it happily. “But really, Yuri.” She spoke with food in her mouth, and Yuri wondered what on earth their parents would say if they could bear witness to everything that had just transpired. Knowing Lilia, she would be just as scandalised by Mila’s lack of manners as she would be by the revelation that her niece was far from pure as she believed her to be. “It’s not such an event. Once you are married you will understand completely, and you will be angry that your mother and father ever built it up to be so monumental.” 

Wrinkling his nose, Yuri drained the last of his wine and bit into his piece of bread and cheese. Unlike Mila he actually let himself swallow his food before speaking, and when he did it was only to mutter, “We are not discussing that now. And say what you like, but you cannot deny that you would be ruined if anybody found out about what you’ve done – so there has to be some importance to it.” 

Sara shrugged lightly, a slight raise of her small shoulders. “Of course there is,” she said simply. “But perhaps too much. Our parents all seem to act as though its only purpose is to seal an alliance or produce an heir, I think perhaps they have forgotten that it’s supposed to feel good.” 

Emil laughed and finished off his wine. “That would explain why they’re so stern all the time,” he said, and it had the intended effect of diffusing some tension and earning a chuckle from those assembled. It also seemed to mark the end of their lunch, and Emil and Michele began to pack away the plates and cups into the wicker basket. It was evident that they planned on taking things away with them to limit the amount that Otabek and Yuri would have to carry since they would only have two horses between them once the rest of the group departed, and Michele also went to relieve Otabek’s horse of another bag that probably just contained spare linens for wherever they were going.

Yuri wandered back over to the water, deciding he wouldn’t be of any help considering he was so much smaller than the three men already working. He heard the rustle of fabric by his side and he knew Mila had come up to stand beside him, although he didn’t acknowledge her at first. Instead he kept looking out over the mountains, wondering how much further they would travel until they reached the summer house, wondering what it would look like. After a while the glare of the sun on the water started to hurt his eyes, and he looked down instead to see how the lake distorted their reflections. “Was it necessary to talk like that in front of everybody?” he asked eventually, keeping his voice low. 

Mila sighed and reached out a hand to smooth some of Yuri’s hair back where it had come loose from his braid. “Did it really bother you?” she murmured, watching his face carefully. “Yuri, you must know that more people our age have done it than your parents would ever let you believe. There’s nothing wrong with it so long as nobody finds out.” She fell silent for a moment, biting her lower lip. “I…you saw Katsuki Yuuri’s performance, how it was so clearly inspired by…intimate relations. You don’t really think your brother left the country to marry him without first having tried…” 

“Enough,” Yuri snapped, turning away from the water and folding his arms over his chest. He scowled down at the floor, feeling heat flare in his cheeks. Images flashed through his mind of the night of Victor’s banquet, when he’d seen the pair of them kissing in the corridor so passionately he wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d attempted to do more right then and there. “What point are you trying to make, Mila?” 

“You remember what I said to you before?” Mila placed her hands on his shoulders and made him face her properly, tilting his chin up so he’d look her in the eye. “About how everyone deserves their happiness, and how it doesn’t necessarily have to come from Jean-Jacques? I still maintain that sentiment now.” She glanced up when Sara started calling her name from the entrance to the forest, waving her arms to get her attention. “That seems to be my cue,” she hummed, leaning in to kiss Yuri’s cheeks gently. “Have fun this week. I doubt there will be time for me to write to you, so you will have to tell me absolutely everything on our way back to Russia.” She drew away from him and took off at a light run across the grass, glancing over her shoulder to call, “I’m holding you accountable to that!”

Yuri shook his head, squinting against the sun as he watched his cousin and her companions mount up and disappear through the trees. He made his way over to Otabek slowly, where the prince was gently fastening nosebags to the horse’s mouths filled with oats for the rest of their journey. For the first time, he and Otabek were now completely alone. Not alone as they had been in the palace, where a servant could have rounded the corner at any moment and seen them, but totally and entirely by themselves. Their party moved away fast enough that soon Yuri could no longer hear their distant talking or the sound of hooves, the noises drained out until eventually all he could hear was the birds and the gentle lap of the water in the lake. 

“We only have two more hours left,” Otabek said, finishing up with the second nosebag and checking to make sure the saddlebags were fastened correctly. “Or we could go faster now that Mila and Sara are not with us – riding side-saddle always does take longer.” He made to mount his horse, but Yuri held out a hand to stop him just before he could. 

“I don’t mind,” he said, gesturing to Otabek’s leg. “If you would like to ride side-saddle, I mean. I could be wrong but it seemed as though you were limping earlier, just before lunch, and I wondered if perhaps it was because we’ve been riding for so long. Please, do what will make you comfortable – the scenery is so beautiful anyway it would be a shame to ride too fast and miss it.” 

Otabek looked at him with an unreadable expression, before nodding and pulling himself up onto his horse. He left both his legs over the same side and pressed one foot into the stirrups so he would still be secure, then waited for Yuri to mount as well before leading them around the lake to go in the opposite direction to the others. “This is the path further out into the country,” he explained, gesturing to the carved out track between the trees as they were once again granted some shade from the sun. “The others have taken the route to the nearby town. Fortunately for them, their journey is much shorter from here.” He smiled over at Yuri fondly, and after that the pair of them fell relatively silent. 

Yuri didn’t know what he had expected from Otabek on this first day of their solitude. He himself was tired from the long journey so far and he was sure Otabek probably felt the same, especially with the added ache of his injured leg, so it was understandable that neither of them were really in the mood to talk all that much. However, Yuri simply could not shake the feeling of dread that he’d misjudged the entire situation when he’d kissed Otabek, that he’d somehow overstepped a boundary and made him uncomfortable. He had to force himself to remember that companionable silence seemed to be Otabek’s preferred social environment – it had been the same in the garden at the ball before Aida had come in with her everlasting energy, and it hadn’t bothered him then. In fact, he liked that it wasn’t necessary for them to say anything for them to know that they were both happy in each other’s company. The only reason it weighed on Yuri’s mind so heavily was his desperate need to know Otabek’s thoughts on what had happened between them. Otabek hadn’t pushed him away, but neither had he really kissed back so much as simply received what Yuri gave him. 

These thoughts seemed so pressing that they occupied Yuri’s head for the remainder of the journey, only occasionally broken when Otabek made a comment about a small landmark or area or checked to see if he wanted any water from their flask. Before long, once the worst of the midday heat had passed into a pleasant warm glow and the sun was just a little lower in the sky, the summer house finally appeared on the horizon. 

It was beautiful, perhaps a quarter of the side of the royal palace but no less elegant, with an ornate water fountain at the front and acres of sprawling, sun-drenched land around it. Otabek had a smile on his face when Yuri looked over at him, and the pair of them brought their horses down the long winding path to the front of the house. A line of servants was waiting at the door for them when they came to a stop, and four men came to remove the saddlebags and take them inside, presumably to their respective bedrooms. Otabek slid off his horse first and extended a hand to help Yuri do the same, and their arms linked as they walked up the steps to greet each servant. 

“The rest of our party will be arriving early tomorrow morning,” Otabek said, by way of explanation for the fact they were alone. “One of our companions happened to forget an item of clothing, so they made a detour to the nearest town to purchase another. They will set out tomorrow so they don’t have to travel during the night.” He smiled warmly and thanked the servants for being there to welcome them, listening when they told him when dinner would be served before nodding and leading Yuri into the house. 

Yuri smirked and turned to press his face against Otabek’s arm for a moment. “Who knew you were such a talented liar?” he whispered, snickering as Otabek grinned and shushed him. “Perhaps I should be concerned that you’ve been lying to me this entire time. Can you really play piano, or did you secretly have someone hiding and helping you?” he teased. 

Otabek rolled his eyes and let out a heavy sigh, tilting his head skywards. “Oh, what have I done? Surely by the end of this week my ego won’t be unscathed, I was brave letting myself be alone with you for this long.” He smirked and stopped in the middle of the entrance hall, gesturing around himself. “Down here is the dining room, and a living room just through there,” he pointed. “The kitchens are also on this floor, they’re not underground like back at the palace. Which I like – you can always smell the food when it’s cooking and it always smells incredible.” He led Yuri up the grand staircase to the second floor and smiled. “Up here is the library, a study and a music room. There aren’t as many rooms here as there are at the palace, but they do tend to be bigger. My mother designed this house, and she wanted every room to have big windows to let in lots of natural light, since it’s for use in the summer. So really, much of the space here is occupied with just that – windows.” 

“I like it,” Yuri murmured, peeking in through the doorway of the music room with a little smile. There was a white grand piano that he would definitely make Otabek play for him during their stay, along with a harp and a cello and several chaise-lounges place around for people to recline while they were listening. Everything looked as though it had just been cleaned that morning, and Yuri supposed the servants must have been informed ahead of time that the house would have occupants for a few days. Everything was covered in golden sunlight yet Yuri couldn’t see a speck of dust anywhere.

“There’s just one more floor,” Otabek continued, gently tugging Yuri’s arm to get him to follow him upstairs. “Our bedrooms are just up here.” At the top of the staircase, the corridor could take them either left or right, and Otabek pointed both ways. “There are only two,” he hummed. “When my mother built the summer house she was adamant that it would be a place only family could come, not a place for being diplomatic or entertaining lots of guests – she said that was what the palace was for. And so the bedroom on the left there is the one she and my father use when we come here, and the one on the right there is the one my sister and I share.” He laughed softly. “It was built before she was born, I hope you don’t mind using that one. I promise, the bed is full sized, there’s just an extra, smaller one in there too.” Otabek’s cheeks were just a little pink, and Yuri smiled. 

“Of course I don’t mind,” he said, venturing down the corridor and opening the bedroom door. It was beautiful inside, decorated with pale blue on the walls and white muslin curtains hanging in the window, which had been pushed open to let in fresh air so they swayed just a little in the breeze. The larger of the two beds could easily fit two people, with a pretty gold headboard and powder blue sheets that had intricate gold thread embroidery. The smaller of the two beds was simply a downsized version of the larger, only with one gold pillow instead of several. “Kazakhstan colours,” Yuri noted, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. 

Otabek chuckled softly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose one thing we could be faulted for is our national pride.” He smiled sheepishly and leaned against the doorframe. The way he looked, half his body drenched in sun and the other obscured by shadow, made him look so beautiful that Yuri’s chest ached slightly. “I hope you like the room. It’s a little early for bed, unless you’d like to rest after the journey, but…I thought perhaps we could go swimming. It would be a good way to cool off before dinner.” 

Swimming – oh, yes, Otabek had mentioned the lake. Suddenly Yuri was very aware of how hot and sticky with sweat his skin felt, how his hair was beginning to cling to the nape of his neck. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would love that.” 

Gesturing behind him to the armoire, Otabek said, “There are fresh towels just in there.” He wandered past him and opened up the doors, reaching to get two neatly-folded towels from the top shelf before handing them off to Yuri. “It’s only a short walk through the gardens, but there’s shade there too so you won’t get burned. I feel like your mother and father would never forgive me if I returned you to them all red and wrinkled like an old man.” 

Yuri grinned and accepted the towels, carrying them carefully as he and Otabek left the bedroom and made their way back downstairs to the front of the house. The servants had dissipated and their way was clear now as Otabek led him off the path and out onto the grass, where small colourful wildflowers bloomed amongst the neatly trimmed blades. Everything was beautiful and the air smelt fresh with plants, so unlike the industrial smoky tang of the city back in St Petersburg. He was especially caught off guard when he glanced up at one point and saw fluffy white shapes ambling across the lawn a little way away. “Sheep?” he asked, smiling up at Otabek. “Real sheep?” 

Otabek raised an eyebrow and smirked. “As opposed to fake ones?” he teased, dodging out of the way with a laugh when Yuri tried to nudge him with his elbow. “We rent the land to farmers since we don’t use it all year round. They graze their sheep here and it helps to keep the grass trimmed without hiring somebody to do it, and it’s a safe area for them as the property is private, there’s a far lower risk of raiding. It works out rather well – we also buy wool from them a lot of the time.” 

Yuri nodded, watching the sheep with a sort of rapt fascination as they continued on their way. Soon they were met with more trees, although they were shorter and Yuri realised that the branches were adorned with various types of fruit, apples and cherries and pears. Otabek reached up and inspected a couple of the apples before pulling two down, shining them on his shirt then handing one to Yuri with a little grin. “They’re good, I promise,” he said, and Yuri didn’t hesitate before taking a bite. It was delicious, crunchy and sweet and juicy. 

The lake wasn’t too large, Yuri could see all sides of it easily, but the water seemed so clear and the very centre of it was free of any shade so he knew it would be warm when he swam out that far. He found a smooth rock by the side of the lake and set down their towels, perching there to finish his apple before he even contemplated getting in. Otabek, however, had eaten quicker and was already unbuttoning the front of his shirt in preparation for his swim. Yuri was helpless to do anything but watch as Otabek slid the material off his shoulders and untouched it from his waistband, folding the shirt and setting it on the pile with the towels. And then his chest was entirely bare, and Yuri felt like he’d been struck across the face. Otabek’s body was tanned and his skin looked so incredibly smooth where it stretched over hard, defined muscle, with his broad shoulders sloping down to a narrow, toned waist. Yuri’s mouth felt dry. 

Finishing off the last few bites of his apple as fast as he could, Yuri tossed the core away and stood up so he too could remove his shirt, folding it over Otabek’s. He knew his body was nothing as impressive, slender and small and feminine with skin so pale he could blend in with snow, but what he felt towards Otabek’s body was intimidation or jealousy, it was something much more…intimate. He paused once his chest was bare, wondering what he should do about his lower half, only to find with some equal degree of relief and disappointment that Otabek was still wearing his trousers as he waded into the water. Yuri followed suit, letting out a soft gasp initially at the colder areas in the shade before he was completely submerged and swimming out towards the centre where it was warmer. 

At its deepest, the lake water came up to Yuri’s neck if he planted his feet on the very bottom. He had to tilt his head upwards to keep his chin from getting wet, so to avoid looking as though he had a crick in his neck he opted to instead just tread water to keep himself afloat. It was a problem that Otabek didn’t seem to have – while he wasn’t that much taller than Yuri, he had enough height on him that the water simply brushed the tops of his shoulders, which glistened with it when the sun hit his tanned skin. 

The cool water felt so good against Yuri’s body after the countless hours of travelling that for a while all he could do was drift around in it, floating on his back with the sun bearing down on his stomach or ducking under the surface to get his hair wet. It had come loose from its braid at some point during the final two hours of their journey and now hung down around his shoulders like a gold curtain, heavy and a little darker than usual with water. The only sounds that filled the small clearing where the lake was were the sounds of birds in the trees around them, the sound of their bodies moving through the water slowly, and the sound of the breeze rustling leaves. 

After a little while, Yuri murmured, “I’m sorry about how Mila acted today at lunch.” He stretched out on his back and allowed himself to be carried on the water until he drifted past Otabek, at which point he stopped and started to tread water again. “She has always been rather outspoken but I didn’t think she would be so vulgar in front of you.” 

Otabek seemed surprised by Yuri’s sudden apology, tilting his head to the side and reaching up to push his wet hair off his face. “Oh,” he said, blinking. “It’s alright, Yuri. You weren’t looking at me while she was talking, were you?” A little smile came over his face and he ducked his head to look at the water. 

Yuri thought about it, then shook his head. “No, I wasn’t, I was looking at her ridiculous giggling…” 

“I was laughing,” Otabek reassured him, swimming closer and resting a hand on Yuri’s shoulder. Not hard enough that it would weigh him down underwater, just lightly enough to try and be encouraging. “I grew up with Michele and Sara, and Sara is very much like Mila. If I couldn’t handle her particular brand of humour I wouldn’t have made it too far in my friendship with them.” 

“Oh,” Yuri said quietly, nodding and reaching up to try and carefully push back his own hair without tangling it hopelessly. He settled for tucking it back behind his small, pointed ears to keep it out of the way. 

Otabek’s hand fell from his shoulder and for a moment a silence settled between them that was rather different from the comfortable ones they had shared before. This silence was weighty, clearly full of anticipation and unasked questions. Eventually it was Otabek who broke it, by saying quietly, “You didn’t talk to me at all on the journey here, while the others were still around. I thought perhaps I had done something to upset you – once again, if I made the wrong decision by coming here alone with you I can only apologise…” 

“No,” Yuri said quickly, shaking his head. “No, I…I have to apologise. Really, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you yesterday.” His cheeks went pink and he turned his face away, looking off to where their clothes rested on the rock. “I don’t want you to think I only did it because I was sulking at dinner, or because I’m trying too hard to be rebellious like Mila. I’m not, I’m really not, I just…wanted to.” He could feel his cheeks getting hotter and hotter, and for a moment he seriously contemplated ducking his whole head under the water in an attempt to cool down. But before he could, Otabek surprised him by saying softly, 

“I’m glad you did.” 

Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth and Yuri had snapped his head up to look at him, Otabek’s lips were pressed against his own. Yuri let out a little gasp of surprise and his hands flew up to hold on around Otabek’s neck as he briefly forgot to tread water, his eyes squeezing tight shut. He was determined this time to remember how it felt, to actually take in what was happening instead of letting himself get so caught up in his own head that he didn’t take the time to enjoy it. Otabek’s lips were soft and warm from the heat, a little slick with lake water but not so much that it presented a problem. Yuri’s desperate treading resulted in him accidentally nudging Otabek’s leg with his foot, and before he realised what was happening Yuri felt Otabek’s strong arm wrap around him under his backside to relieve him of the need to keep afloat. 

Taking it as a sign to continue, Yuri wrapped his legs around Otabek’s waist and pressed himself closer, water lapping against their bodies as Otabek’s free hand came to rest on Yuri’s back between his shoulder blades. Their lips parted slowly, uncertainly, each of them waiting to see if the other would press further first. It was a sign of respect and trust, and it was deeply, maddeningly taunting. Yuri opened his mouth with a soft huff of warm breath, a whine escaping him unwittingly when he felt Otabek’s tongue brush hotly against his own. Yuri tried to copy what he did, running the tip of his tongue along Otabek’s lower lip and grazing his teeth there ever so gently, which drew from Otabek a noise that shot directly through Yuri’s body to heat the pit of his stomach. Something like a low moan, it reverberated through Otabek’s strong chest in such a way that Yuri felt it against his own, and he pressed his body closer in response. 

Otabek drew away from Yuri’s lips for air and tucked his face into the crook of his neck, kissing the skin there like it was holy. “Yura,” he breathed, his voice so gravelly and rough that Yuri felt faint even as he was held up. Yuri used his grip on the back of Otabek’s neck to slide a hand up into his hair, stroking his fingers through the coarse dark strands. 

“Beka. Why did you stop?” he whispered, tilting his head to press a tender kiss to Otabek’s temple where he could just about reach it. 

Otabek drew back and tilted Yuri’s chin up with his finger so he’d look at the sky, which had turned the tell-tale violet of twilight. “We have to go,” he murmured, and as if on cue, a breeze drifted by them that sent a chill running down Yuri’s spine. It would only get cooler from then on, and Yuri knew there would a hot meal waiting for them once they got back to the house. It was that thought alone that had him reluctantly detaching himself from Otabek and swimming over to the edge of the lake, where he climbed out and fetched a towel from the pile. 

They dried themselves in silence, both of them knowing that if either one talked they would likely end up back where they had been before, and they would never get back to the house before nightfall. Yuri handed Otabek his shirt and took his own, buttoning it halfway since he knew he would be changing for dinner as soon as he got inside. They walked hand-in-hand back to the house, small fireflies appearing and lighting the still air around them as the grass brushed over their bare feet, shoes in hand.

The windows of the house were lit from within with a soft orange glow, and Yuri was met with the familiar smell of candlewax when they walked in through the door of the entrance hall. There was also the delicious smell of cooking food, and he felt his stomach growl at the prospect of having a hot meal. He had to let go of Otabek’s hand so they could both go to change out of their wet things, and by the time he was dressed Otabek was already in the dining room and seated. 

Yuri sat opposite him, and for a while his only focus was on the food being brought out to them. The first course was a rich soup, made with cream and slow roasted tomatoes that warmed Yuri from the inside out. Next there was fish, perfectly crisp on the outside with melted butter and lemon drizzled on top, and light as air on the inside with a fresh taste that seemed to burst on Yuri’s tongue. Dessert was his favourite, some sort of tart with sweet crumbling pastry and fresh summer berries with pouring cream on top and the lightest dusting of sugar. They had wine too, although Yuri did try to limit himself just a little so he could still talk sensibly with Otabek. It was blissful, dining in a quiet room with a single candle between them and the space to talk freely, to not have to yell over the noise of other diners or pause every five minutes for an inebriated noble to clink his glass and make a meaningless toast. It was perfect, calm and quiet without the fanfare of royal dinners that Yuri had grown so unfortunately accustomed to.

When they were finished eating, servants came to take their plates and wash them in the kitchen, and the pair of them were served coffee so they could talk longer at the table. Somewhere towards the end of his cup Yuri realised his eyes were starting to droop a little, the weight of the day’s travel and excitement finally taking its toll. Otabek seemed to notice, chuckling softly with his own sleep-weary voice and rising from the table. “Go to bed, Yura,” he murmured. “I have to see the servants out and lock the doors.” 

Yuri nodded reluctantly, dragging himself away from the table and leaving his chair. “Goodnight,” he whispered, glancing up at him through his eyelashes and tucking his hair shyly behind his ear before leaving the dining room alone. He made his way up the stairs to the third floor, listening to Otabek greeting one of the servants and saying something to them in quiet Kazakh. For a moment at the top of the staircase Yuri looked both left and right, wondering if he should go to Otabek’s room and wait for him or to the room that he had been given. 

Eventually he opted to go to his own room, not wanting to overstep. All they had done was kiss, and Yuri had to remind himself with a grim recollection that he was still engaged, and if he misjudged the situation at all there was always the danger of word somehow getting back to his parents, and by extension, his unwilling fiancé. He removed his clothes and put on a nightshirt, sitting at the dresser to carefully brush out his hair so it wouldn’t tangle during the night. The candle on the nightstand had almost completely burned down, so instead of blowing it out Yuri simply climbed into bed and lay on his side under the smooth silk covers, watching the flame flicker and dance on the very last length of its wick. 

Yuri fell asleep before it burned out completely. The bed was so comfortable and the feather pillow enveloped his head in a way that made it feel weightless; combined with the gentle breeze from outside and the lingering heat of Otabek’s kisses on his lips and neck, it was the easiest task imaginable for him to slip into a deep, undisturbed sleep. 

Undisturbed until the middle of the night, when he was suddenly woken by a dreadful, blood-curdling scream coming from just down the corridor. Yuri sat up, clutching his chest, hair falling down around his shoulders as he stared at his closed bedroom door with wide-eyed horror. For a moment he had an awful concern that someone had broken into the house and was hurting Otabek, before he remembered that Otabek had said he was locking the doors and that the land they were on was private and so far removed from any town that it would have been nearly impossible for anyone to get to them. So the noise, he decided, must have been coming from just Otabek alone. But why? 

The screaming continued, each one sounding worse than the last. There was begging and pleading in a language Yuri didn’t understand, sobs and yells and Yuri was halfway out of bed to go and see what was happening when he suddenly heard a very loud crash, like the sound glass made when it shattered. He didn’t hesitate to wrench the door open and run down the corridor like lightning to Otabek’s bedroom, not bothering to knock before letting himself in and observing the scene. 

Otabek was sat up in bed with a sheen of sweat covering his bare chest and forehead, matting his hair. His hands were gripping the sheets that pooled around his waist so hard that his knuckles were white, and he was staring in horror at the floor, where the remnants of what had obviously been a porcelain vase were scattered all over the ornate tapestry rug. Yuri knew that there was a similar vase on the nightstand in his own room, and that Otabek must have somehow swiped it off onto the floor in a fit of…what, panic? “Yura,” he whispered, drawing his attention away from the floor and back to the man on the bed. “I…I’m sorry, I didn’t…” 

Yuri shook his head, carefully picking his way around the broken vase and climbing up onto the bed beside Otabek, kneeling next to him. Upon closer inspection he could see that Otabek’s sharp cheeks were stained with tears and his eyes were rimmed with red, and Yuri wasted no time in wrapping his arms around him to hold him close. Otabek’s tense shoulders collapsed with a sob and he pressed his face firmly into Yuri’s chest, one of Yuri’s hands going to his hair to comb his fingers through it gently. “It’s alright,” he whispered, shushing him softly as he arranged himself into a more comfortable position that they could both lay down in. 

Otabek didn’t let go of him, moving his hands from the sheets to bunch in the fabric of Yuri’s nightshirt. He refused to lift his head from its position against his chest, trembling all over despite the fact he was sweating and under the blankets. Yuri didn’t want to ask him what had happened, he didn’t know if talking about it would make it better or worse, so he elected to remain quiet and instead just hold him. 

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. The room was too dark for him to see the face of the clock on the mantelpiece and the sky outside didn’t get any lighter, so the only way he could judge when time had passed was by the way Otabek’s breathing gradually evened out, his chest rising and falling much steadier, and Yuri realised he’d fallen back asleep. Sighing softly, Yuri closed his eyes and willed himself to follow in his example however hard it was to put the myriad of conflicting thoughts out of his head, eventually managing to slip into an uneasy slumber. Regardless, his hand remained in Otabek’s hair the entire night long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	12. Intended For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW chapter warning: This chapter contains sex. Specifically, oral sex and anal sex. If you would like to avoid this but would like to read the plot developments of this chapter, I would advise you stop reading after Yuri and Otabek have dinner together and Otabek is telling him stories about his childhood.

Yuri awoke the next morning to an empty bed. The sheets were tangled around his bare legs and sunlight poured through the window, pooling in the area where Otabek should have been laying. For a moment Yuri was confused, wondering why he was in a different bedroom to the one he’d gone to sleep in, before he remembered the events of the previous night and sat up quickly. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked softly, informing him it was currently eight in the morning. After a minute of collecting himself and trying to sort out some knots that had formed in his hair, Yuri slid out of the bed and padded barefoot down the corridor back to the bedroom that had been assigned to him for the duration of his stay at the summer house. The servants would have arrived already to prepare breakfast and start cleaning, and so it wouldn’t do for him to be walking around in just his nightshirt.

He dressed as quickly as he could in a similar light outfit as the day before, already feeling the heat coming from the windows of the bedroom. Almaty in summer was beautiful, though it required a careful selection of clothes to ensure one didn’t get overheated within minutes of stepping outside. Once he was dressed and he’d tied his hair into a careful braid down his back, Yuri headed downstairs and made his way to the dining room to sample whatever had been laid out for breakfast. He’d expected to see Otabek there as he hadn’t been in bed, but every chair at the table was empty and neither of the two carefully set plates had been used.

Frowning, Yuri set about making up two plates of food. On each one he added a couple of pastries covered in strawberry jam, some fruit, and some toast practically soaked in hot melted butter. Then, with as steady a hand as he could manage, he carried both plates back up the stairs in search of Otabek. He was fairly certain he wouldn’t have gone outside without telling him, which meant it was likely he could be found in one of the rooms on the second floor. Yuri tried the library first, nudging the door open with his booted foot and poking his head around to check if anyone was hiding among the dark rows of books, before he fell silent for a moment and became aware of the quiet sound of music coming from the end of the corridor.

Slowly Yuri wandered towards the source of the noise, trying his best to tread lightly so as not to cause a disturbance. When he reached the door of the music room he slowly elbowed the door open and glanced inside. Otabek was seated at the grand piano wearing a similar light outfit to Yuri’s, his head bent low as his fingers worked over the ivory keys. He seemed lost in what he was doing, free of the tension that had coiled tight in his body the night before. Yuri was almost loathe to disturb him, however he knew at some point they would have to talk again, they only had limited time together before Yuri would have to go back to Russia.

Fortunately for him, it seemed he didn’t have to make the decision himself, as a moment later Otabek’s voice drifted from behind the half-open door, “You can come in, Yura.”  The playing stopped and there was the sound of a chair lightly scraping against the floor, and Yuri took that as his cue to push the door open the rest of the way and slip inside the room. Otabek was now sat back a little from the piano, and Yuri saw as he approached that the top three buttons of his shirt were undone to somewhat alleviate himself from the heat in the room.

“I brought you some breakfast,” Yuri hummed, setting the plates down carefully atop the piano. “I wasn’t sure exactly what you would like so I got a little of everything. You should eat.” He propped his elbows on the piano and took a grape off his own plate, popping it in his mouth. After a second of just looking at him with a little smile on his face, Otabek sighed and reached out to take a piece of hot toast.

“Thank you,” he murmured, taking a bite and munching on it quietly while Yuri plucked at various different fruits absently. It was obvious that they needed and wanted to talk to each other, but were both apparently incapable of doing so just yet. It made sense – a lot had happened in a short time, and Yuri knew that personally he didn’t have any idea where to begin discussing it. He should have known, however, to expect that Otabek would begin the conversation with an apology. “I’m sorry if I scared you last night. Usually I’m alright unless there’s a particularly loud noise, but I suppose I was rather overtired from the travelling.”

Yuri chewed slowly on his grape, running his eyes over Otabek’s form. He didn’t look too exhausted or haggard as Yuri might have expected from someone who’d had a terrible nightmare mere hours ago, but there was something in the way he sat that made him appear almost…remorseful. As though he had somehow inconvenienced Yuri by waking him up. “Does that happen often?” he asked quietly, wandering around to stand behind Otabek’s piano stool to get a look at the sheet music he’d been reading. It made no sense to Yuri – Yakov and Lilia had tried their best to get him to learn something musical, but it had never been a natural talent of his – his piano playing was mediocre at best and almost always improvised as opposed to a rendition of something composed. Victor had quite a gift for the violin, but that was the extent of the family’s musical prowess. Without thinking, Yuri reached up a hand and threaded his fingers through Otabek’s hair, which was already a little damp from the heat.

Otabek sighed and leaned into his touch. “Not as much as it used to,” he murmured, closing his eyes for a moment. There was a brief silence as the pair of them stood there, close together despite the warmth their proximity generated, Yuri’s fingers slowly working themselves through Otabek’s hair. Despite all that was still left unsaid between them, the silence was peaceful and calm, and Yuri found he didn’t mind it in the slightest. He would have been quite content to spend all day that way, but he knew deep down that they should make the most of the time they had together.

“It’s Friday in just two days,” Yuri whispered, resting his cheek atop Otabek’s head and closing his eyes. Otabek smelt like fresh cut grass, and Yuri couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he really had woken up much earlier than him and gone for a walk around the gardens alone. “And I will have to return to Russia.” He’d been trying desperately to push all thoughts of St Petersburg as far out of his mind as possible, but there was no denying the time limit they faced before they would be forced apart.

Otabek reached up and gently caught Yuri’s hand, tangling their fingers together. “Well then,” he murmured. “We shall have to make the most of today.” He rose from the piano stool and gently lifted the wooden cover back over the keys, pausing to pluck another berry from his breakfast plate before guiding Yuri back out of the room. “How do you feel about boats? Small ones, of course – there’s a rowboat out on the lake that we could use for a while.”

The barest mention of the lake had Yuri thinking about what had passed between them the evening before, about Otabek’s hands on his skin and tongue on his lips. His cheeks coloured and he could only offer a small nod in response as Otabek first led him to his parents’ bedroom and plucked a book off the shelf, then walked hand-in-hand with him down the grand staircase. Servants were still wandering around the entrance hall, although they didn’t seem to be dressed for indoor work, and when Yuri glanced up at Otabek inquisitively he received the explanation, “They work with the animals outside, I think today is milking day for the cows, and there’s some fruit to be picked too.”

Yuri hummed in acknowledgement and tightened his grip on Otabek’s hand as they walked back out onto the grass. After a moment of thought, Yuri leaned down and unlaced his boots, leaving them by the stone steps. If they were going to be sat in a boat then he wouldn’t need his shoes, and the grass was so warm and dry that there was no use getting all hot with them tied up around his calves all day. Otabek watched him with a little smirk on his face before relenting and doing the same, leaving the pairs of boots lined up alongside each other on the patio.

Their walk to the lake turned into a little race as they neared the trees that would lead them to the water, Yuri giggling madly and trying his best to use his smaller size to his advantage while he ran. Strands of hair escaped his braid and flew about his face as his movement whipped up a cool breeze, and just before he could go hurtling into the lake he felt Otabek wrap his arms around him from behind, lifting him up off the ground with a chuckle. “Not bad for a man with an injury, hm?” he panted, squeezing Yuri’s waist and pressing his lips to his jaw. “I caught you.” He set him down and allowed him to turn around, and Yuri’s eyes met the deep brown pair staring back at him. “Do I get a reward?”

Yuri narrowed his eyes, pretending to consider it. “I think that sounds fair,” he said eventually, stretching onto the tips of his toes and gently, ever so gently, brushed his lips against Otabek’s. It was unhurried and soft, hindered somewhat by the fact that both of their chests were still hitching from the exertion of the run and Yuri’s muscles were too tired to keep him stable on his toes. When they drew back, Yuri grinned and turned to the lake, looking around the bank where they’d left their clothes the night before. “I didn’t see a rowboat yesterday,” he said.

Otabek raised an eyebrow and wandered past him, handing him the book as he went. There was a large overgrown bush that seemed to extend out into the water, and he crouched down beside this with only a little wince at the strain to his leg in order to reach around it and pull on a length of rope. “You weren’t looking hard enough,” he teased, and continued to pull on the rope until a small wooden rowboat emerged from behind the growth. It was quaint, painted white with gold lettering across the side in Kazakh, which Yuri didn’t understand but could appreciate for the way it shone in the sun. There were two wooden oars resting inside the boat, and two large padded cushions – pale blue with gold tassels like the ones from the bedroom upstairs. Otabek stopped the boat carefully where it was shallowest at the edge of the lake, and gestured for Yuri to get in. “You sit at the back there,” he said, patting the cushions.

Yuri’s eyes were shining as he stepped into the boat and settled himself down comfortably, already excited at the prospect of just drifting across the lake with Otabek under the sun. It was a small, simple pleasure, but it was private and quiet and everything that he wanted from this trip to the summer house. Once he was in the boat, Otabek took his place on the small wooden bench at the front and carefully picked up the oars to start rowing them out into the middle of the water, where it was deepest. They’d kept largely to the shallows when they’d been swimming the day before, since they’d been tired from their long journey and neither had the strength for endurance exercise, but now Otabek took them out a little further and Yuri was struck by just how pretty it all was. There was a small sheltered area made from pillars and pretty metal latticework, and plenty of willow trees whose branches dipped and brushed the water in the gentle breeze.

Otabek only stopped rowing them once they were out in the very middle of the lake, where the sun shone down and warmed Yuri pleasantly, but he could dangle his arm off the side of the boat and trail his fingertips through the water to keep cool. “This is my favourite place,” he murmured. “I hide the boat behind the bush like that so I can keep it a secret. I love my family dearly but I think everybody needs some time to themselves once in a while, there’s no shame in that.” He glanced down at Yuri and bit his lip, sounding unsure as he added, “Is there?”

Yuri shook his head, letting out a long, contended breath and closing his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so free, so relaxed and weightless. The boat rocked pleasantly as they drifted aimlessly on the water, he could hear birds singing in the trees around them and the air was laced with the light smell of flowers. “Not at all,” he murmured. “Family can be…difficult.” He absently ran his hand back and forth through the water, tips of his fingers brushing over the smooth, waxy pad of a waterlily.

More silence overcame them then, and Yuri felt quite certain that he would fall asleep if no conversation was made soon. He could hear Otabek softly turning the pages of the book he’d brought, and it was lulling him into such a relaxed state that he felt almost boneless where he lay. It was only when the book suddenly snapped shut and the boat swayed as Otabek moved towards him that he became a little more alert. Otabek’s shadow fell over him as he came to sit against the cushions with him, drawing Yuri’s head gently into his lap.

“Do you think your cheeks will burn?” he murmured softly, running his thumb over the high, defined slope of Yuri’s cheekbones. “I don’t think Lilia would forgive me. I can already see freckles just there.” Otabek smiled and moved his fingers to Yuri’s hair, gently releasing the soft golden strands from their braid so he could comb his fingers through. “I wanted to tell you a story,” he said quietly, reclining against the cushions until he was comfortable. “Not like the one I wrote for Aida, though. This one is a true story – one that I think you might have forgotten, but that I remember very, very clearly.”

Yuri looked up at him inquisitively, glad that he could now see clearly without having to squint due to Otabek’s shadow protecting him from the sun. “Oh?” he hummed. “A story about me?”

“About us,” Otabek murmured, smiling softly with his hand still carding through Yuri’s hair. He paused for a moment as if deciding how best to begin, then continued, “I suppose you think that the banquet was the first time you ever met me. Indeed, you certainly didn’t recognise me in the courtyard when you shouted at me for leaving one of your horses unattended.” A little teasing note crept into his voice, but it was gone again when he spoke next. “But in reality, we met long before that. Ten years before.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Yuri’s official adoption celebration was a sight to behold. Nobody had expected the Empress and her husband to adopt a second child, not when they had a first as perfect and beautiful as Victor. For ten years since Victor’s adoption it had been presumed that he would remain an only child and one day inherit the throne as the sole heir, and so it was of great surprise and excitement to the people of St Petersburg when the monarchs returned one day with their second young son. For a while not much was said about him, he was kept inside and taught the ways of the palace, the manners and customs and traditions. Victor was valiant in his duties as he continued to tour the surrounding villages and meet the people who they ruled over, graciously dodging any questions about his new little brother._

_Then one evening, almost a month after Yuri Plisetsky’s arrival, his ceremony was held. Nobles and royals from around the world were invited to officially welcome the new youngest heir to the Russian family, and there were no expenses spared for the occasion. At this point in his life Yuri was blissfully unaware of the ever-present favouritism that existed on his new father’s part towards Victor, and so it didn’t cross his five-year-old mind that perhaps Victor’s ceremony had been twice as large, twice as extravagant, twice as anticipated. All he saw were the decorations, the fine china and the display of food unlike anything he’d had before._

_Tailors visited the palace in the weeks preceding the event and Yuri was fitted for his clothes, fine silk and richly dyed cotton that matched the ribbon that was tied into his newly cut and washed hair. He understood little of what was happening, he didn’t completely comprehend the different greetings he was told to extend to different types of guests, but he knew that he wanted to do his very best to solidify his new position at court. As far as he was concerned, it was uncertain until he had proven himself to be worthy of it. He had met Victor the day he had arrived from the workhouse, at that point a boy of seventeen with stunning beauty and a charming manner, and Yuri took it as the set standard he had to work towards if he were to stay._

_The beginning of the celebration had been an informal meeting in the palace ballroom. Every new visitor that arrived was eager beyond belief to catch an eyeful of the new prince, and Victor took it upon himself to whisk Yuri around and introduce him to everyone. He would march his new little brother up to each guest and say, “This is my brother Yuri, isn’t he sweet?” or some other such compliment that had the guests cooing and fawning over the small blonde cherub of a boy in front of them. Yuri had been far too young to remember the names of everyone he spoke to, he hardly even remembered their faces, and in the future when Yuri looked back on the event he would mostly recall sticking to Victor’s side like glue for the entire evening._

_The formal meetings came afterwards. Yuri was sat on his small throne at the head of the ballroom, and a line of guests was assembled to greet him one by one. A young Christophe, all blonde curls and bright green eyes, and his family from Switzerland. A surly young man from Korea who looked older than his years, and his equally stony-faced parents. And then there had been the party from Kazakhstan._

_“It is a pleasure and an honour to meet our new prince,” the King had said, bowing low while his wife curtsied beside him. They had tried to encourage Otabek to extend a similar kind of sentiment, but when actually faced with Yuri’s green eyes bearing down on him, Otabek had been struck dumb and quite unable to speak at all. He was a short boy with wild black hair that hadn’t yet settled into the smooth waves it would naturally fall to when he got older, and he found it was all he could do to open and close his mouth helplessly until his father took pity on him and moved to present their gift._

_The King and Queen had doted on Yuri generously, offering a necklace made of delicate white gold, at the end of which hung a beautiful lily made from creamy white enamel, its tiny petals tipped with yellow gold like it was drenched in Kazakh summer sun. Yakov and Lilia had accepted it with a sort of reluctant courtesy that was barely masked by their bland smiles, although it was Otabek who had stepped forward to place the necklace on Yuri himself. He was only seven years old, and his small fingers fumbled with the clasp before eventually managing to secure it around his neck. When he stepped back he bowed politely, and his large brown eyes had been fixed on Yuri the entire time._

 

* * *

 

 

“I remember that necklace,” Yuri murmured, a small frown appearing between his eyebrows. “I remember so little of the adoption ceremony, but I do remember that necklace. I wore it almost every day for years, and then one morning, perhaps when I was…ten? It suddenly disappeared. I thought for sure I had left it on my dresser in my bedroom before I went to sleep, but when I woke up it was gone. I assumed a servant had stolen it – I tried telling Mama and Papa but they dismissed it as me having been careless and lost it.” How could he not have remembered that it was Otabek who’d presented that necklace to him? It was a lily, after all, Kazakhstan’s national flower. Perhaps more unsettling, however, was the fact he had met Otabek so long ago and not remembered him. Now, it seemed as though it would be impossible to forget those kind, gentle eyes and smooth tanned skin.

Otabek smiled sadly. “It was meant to be a courting gift,” he admitted quietly, and Yuri’s eyes snapped up to stare at him. He chuckled softly and nodded, brushing his thumb over Yuri’s cheek. “I didn’t know this until recently, my father told me on the evening he broke the news about your engagement to Jean-Jacques. It seems that…when you were first adopted, your parents were keen to find you a match as soon as possible. Victor’s marriage to Christophe was already agreed upon, and other princes like Seung-gil were reaching ages where marriage arrangements would be made and eligible partners would be taken quickly. Your mother did not want to wait and risk being unable to find somebody for you. You may not realise this, but some families have a…prejudice, shall we say, against those who are adopted into royalty as opposed to being born in to it. And at the time, nobody was certain whether or not you would grow up to be a beauty like Victor.” He ran his thumb gently over Yuri’s lower lip and smiled. “They should never have doubted that. Regardless, none of those things mattered to my parents, and the arrangement was made that you and I would marry when we were both eighteen.” He sighed softly. “But then you turned ten, and the French court visited St Petersburg. They had been unable to attend your adoption ceremony, and hadn’t seen you until then. But when they saw your beauty, they decided they wanted you for their son, Jean-Jacques. And so the necklace was sent back to my family and the arrangement was dismissed. Your parents had found you a better prospect.”

Yuri was struck silent. He’d been angered on the journey to Almaty by the discovery that his marriage to Jean-Jacques had been secured for years, but now he was discovering that he had been betrothed to a near-stranger ever since his very first weeks in the palace. His life had never truly been his own, and yet somehow, he couldn’t find it within himself to let this new development torment him as much as the news of his current engagement. Wasn’t it obvious that Otabek would have been the better choice for him? A family who didn’t care about his heritage or appearance, a palace that would have been closer to home. At the very least, from a political standpoint, it would have solidified Russia’s control over Kazakhstan to a far deeper extent. It wasn’t how Yuri liked to think of his marriage, but that was the strategic way that Lilia’s mind worked, and it would have made sense for him to marry Otabek. If he had discovered, at sixteen as he was now, that he had been betrothed to Otabek Altin his entire life he would not have been angry about it. He would have seen the logic there, would have understood the connection.

But now he was engaged to Jean-Jacques, whose parents had only considered Yuri as a prospect for marriage once they saw him at ten years old and felt reassured that his looks would only continue to improve as he aged. He was to be married into a family who cared more for the aesthetic appearance of their court than the happiness of its inhabitants – Yuri was to be deprived of the genuine affection he would have received from Otabek as a husband in the French monarchy’s pursuit of beauty.

“I don’t like this part of the story,” Yuri whispered, turning and pressing his face into Otabek’s stomach. He didn’t have it in him to be angry, because there was nobody around for him to direct his rage towards. Yakov wasn’t there for him to scream at, Victor wasn’t there for him to lash out at. The only one there was Otabek, as it should have been always, and he didn’t deserve Yuri’s anger. He didn’t even deserve Yuri’s pity, for they were both sad, sorrowful creatures turned into victims by the Empress and her pride.

Otabek remained silent, stroking his hand over Yuri’s hair gently. After a while, he carefully shifted out from underneath him and lay his head back on the cushions to sit back at the front of the boat, picking up the oars and rowing them back to the bank of the lake. He pulled the boat back into its place behind the bush while Yuri sat silently on the rock watching him, then took his hand and the pair of them walked back through the fields towards the house.

“I’m sorry,” Otabek murmured at one point on their walk, looking down at Yuri with such a pained expression that it felt as though someone had ripped Yuri’s heart from his chest. “You have never been given any control over what you want or who you will be with, and I cannot pretend to be any better than Jean-Jacques when I would so readily have agreed to marry you when the time came.”

Yuri shook his head, stopping them in a patch of long grass that swished around their bare ankles in the breeze. “It would have made sense,” he whispered, cupping his cheeks with both hands and looking up at him with glassy eyes. “You and I. It would have made so much sense. And I would have agreed, willingly and happily. You are nothing like him, because the feeling between you and I is mutual.” He stared at him for a second longer, then stretched up on his toes and kissed him softly, sliding his hand around to tangle in his short hair.

The kiss couldn’t last long, not when the servants were still working out in the grounds of the house and they were in full view of everyone. They were still supposed to be under the pretence that they had other guests staying with them somewhere – somehow, the servants still believed such a lie despite there being just two bedrooms in the property. They drew apart reluctantly and made their way towards the neat kitchen garden at the side of the house, where a little hedge archway led them down a small stone path between rows of fruits and vegetables. The servants didn’t seem to have reached that particular part of the garden yet, and Otabek crouched down beside one of the beds to have a look at the food growing there.

“We could pick some of these,” he hummed, gently moving the leaves about on one of the strawberry plants. “They’re best when they’re fresh, and this way we can pick just the ones we want.” Otabek gestured for Yuri to crouch down beside him before reaching for one of the wicker baskets set off to the side of the path. Yuri had never done any sort of gardening before in his life, but he was quick to understand how to select the best strawberries – fat and bright red, but nothing with a green or purple hue, that meant they were either too firm or overripe. He and Otabek worked on picking the best they could find, brushing off soil and carefully dropping them into the basket.

Once they’d selected the ones they wanted they took their basket to the kitchens to have the fruit washed for them, and they had a porcelain pitcher filled with cool, fresh milk that had been produced that day. They took their small picnic of fruit and milk back out to the garden and sat in the shade of a large tree for much of the afternoon, Otabek reading to Yuri from the book he’d brought out with him while Yuri occasionally interrupted him to feed him a strawberry. Sometimes the juice from the berries would run down onto Yuri’s fingers, and he’d feel Otabek’s tongue come out to lick it away for him, which set a fire in his belly that he could only describe as an intense desire.

Yuri fell asleep for a little while under the tree, once his stomach was full of berries and fresh milk and the sun was warm and Otabek’s voice lulled him into a light slumber. He awoke when the air began to chill and they retired to the house to change for dinner, which turned out to be a vegetable dish created from the various produce that the gardens had yielded that day. Yuri had half a mind to ask the gardeners back in St Petersburg if there would be any way of growing fresh fruit and vegetables in the palace grounds, although somehow he doubted the plants would prosper so well without the fresh air and sunshine that came so naturally to Almaty.

Throughout dinner Otabek shared stories of his own childhood growing up, as a silent agreement had been established between them that any mention of Yuri’s childhood would surely turn the mood bitter and sour, and so was a topic to be avoided. Otabek’s youth, however, sounded endlessly entertaining. He told Yuri about how his father was reluctant to let him learn to ride when he was too young to properly stay on a horse, so he would get down on all fours in the drawing room and let Otabek sit on his back while he transported him about the room at his instruction. He told him a story about a time when his mother had wanted to try her hand at cooking and asked the servants in the kitchens to give her some easy lessons, but she’d used too much flour and created bread buns that were hard as rocks that he and his father had pretended to find delicious – a feat of acting, Otabek said, that was deserving of being on stage for how utterly convincing it was.

After dinner, they once again went their separate ways. Otabek kissed his knuckles softly at the top of the staircase before departing to his room, and Yuri reluctantly went to his own bed. Once he was in his nightshirt he climbed under the quilt and stared up at the canopy above him, wide awake and not in the least bit sleepy. Part of him wondered if maybe it was the short nap he’d taken under the tree earlier, if perhaps he’d simply had his fill of sleeping and thrown his body out of balance. But the longer he lay there, the more he became aware of the feeling in his stomach that hadn’t gone away since earlier that evening. He’d been able to ignore it somewhat during dinner, with the distraction of Otabek’s childhood stories to keep him occupied, but now there was no denying that something was making him…restless.

Huffing, Yuri rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into the pillow beneath his head, trying his best to concentrate on falling asleep. There had to be a good reason for what he was feeling – he’d eaten a lot, maybe he was simply full? Or maybe the sun had gone to his head a little, made him dizzy? But would either of those things make his stomach flip like it was doing just then, make something in his chest ache and light his nerve endings on fire with a need to…touch, to be near something? To be near someone? And in the back of his mind, as he tried and tried again to succumb to sleep, Mila’s voice kept ringing through his head whispering, “ _It’s not such an event…I think perhaps they have forgotten it’s supposed to feel good_.”

Yuri sat up, frowning at the wall ahead of him in the darkness. Now that day had passed, he only had one full day left with Otabek before he would be forced to return to Russia, and the ever-approaching event of his marriage to Jean-Jacques. If he didn’t do this now, when would he ever have the chance again? He’d become quite convinced over the past week that Otabek Altin was the one man who would be able to make him happy – the one and only man. There was no sense in holding back now if he would only live to regret it once he was bound to a man he did not love and was not attracted to in the slightest.

Firm in his resolve, Yuri silently slipped out of his bed and padded down the dark corridor to Otabek’s room. All the servants had left when he and Otabek started dinner, and the house was completely silent. Yuri could hear his own breathing as he quietly pushed open Otabek’s door and let himself inside, finding that the candle on the nightstand was still burning and Otabek was sat upright in bed with a book open in his lap. It presented with Yuri with something of a challenge, because he hadn’t entirely thought so far ahead as to what he would do once he was in Otabek’s bedroom. He’d half expected himself to lose his nerve halfway down the corridor and turn back, so now he didn’t know what to say with Otabek staring at him expectantly.

“Are you alright, Yura?” The words sounded confused and concerned all at once, and Otabek shut the book he was reading to set it aside on the nightstand. He was dressed the same way Yuri was, in a plain white nightshirt that should have been tied at the front but was instead hanging open loosely. Yuri couldn’t blame him, the room was rather warm even now it was dark outside, but it did present him with an awful distraction when he was trying to get his thoughts coherently in order.

Instead of answering, Yuri padded closer to the bed and knelt up on the end of the mattress. Maintaining eye contact with Otabek as a way to measure his reaction, he crawled forward until he was kneeling over Otabek’s lap with his hands resting lightly on his chest. He could feel a strong and fast heartbeat, and he wondered if Otabek understood what was happening, if that was his response. “I’m sorry,” Yuri whispered. “I couldn’t sleep. I kept feeling…I felt…”

“Yura.” Otabek’s voice was deep and rough from the late hour. He reached up and gently tucked Yuri’s loose blonde hair behind his ear, fingers lingering on his cheek instead of drawing away. Yuri was able to really look at him, the way the candlelight dripped over the defined lines of his handsome face and shone off smooth tan of his skin. His dark lashes cast long shadows over his cheeks, and his eyes were like amber in the dim yellow glow. He was beautiful, so incredibly beautiful. And yet the words that left his mouth were anything but. “We shouldn’t do this.”

Yuri made a noise he didn’t think he’d ever made before, a sort of desperate whine as his hand tightened around a fistful of Otabek’s nightshirt. “Please,” he whispered. “There’s no reason why we…”

“Your engagement.” Otabek seemed pained to be denying him, a strained expression on his face as he reached up to cup Yuri’s cheek with his hand. It was then that Yuri realised Otabek’s hand was trembling ever so slightly, and if he’d thought it was nerves, that suspicion was killed when he saw how wide Otabek’s pupils had grown. He was shaking from barely contained desire, and it made the heat in Yuri’s stomach flare like a bonfire. “You…you’re engaged, Yura, we can’t…”

Yuri placed his fingers over Otabek’s mouth to stop him, green eyes staring deep into brown. When he was sure Otabek would no longer protest, he drew his hand away and moved it to rest along the hollow of Otabek’s throat where his pulse was thrumming strong and his skin was hot to the touch. Looking up at him through his lashes, Yuri lowered his voice and whispered, “But I was intended for you.”

It seemed to spark something in Otabek, because in the next moment Yuri found himself on his back on the bed where Otabek had just been sitting, his hair fanned out on the pillows like a halo and Otabek’s body covering his own. Their lips found each other in an uncoordinated meeting of tongue and teeth, nipping and panting as they tried to fall into a rhythm. Yuri’s hands came up to slide into Otabek’s hair and pull him close, and Otabek’s hands fell to clutch desperately at Yuri’s arm and waist. Everywhere Otabek touched him felt like it came alive under his fingers, and Yuri found himself lifting his hips shamelessly to try and press closer.

Otabek trailed his kisses down from Yuri’s mouth to his neck, where he sucked gently on the delicate skin at his collarbone until a small red mark began to form. Soft moans fell from Yuri’s lips unbidden, his fingers scrabbling for a better hold at the nape of Otabek’s neck. Otabek stroked down his sides and dipped under the material of his nightshirt until his hand splayed flat on his stomach, causing Yuri to gasp and tug Otabek’s hair a little. That made Otabek pause for a moment and look up, his chin resting on Yuri’s chest. “You’ve never done this before,” he whispered. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, but it felt loaded all the same.

Yuri flushed dark pink and shook his head, cursing himself for his lack of experience. Maybe Mila had been right, and far more people than he thought had done this already. Maybe listening to Lilia and Yakov’s traditional ideas had been a terrible idea, a pitfall that would cost him his moment of intimacy now. “Have you?” he risked asking, his voice coming out very small and faint.

A slow smile curled Otabek’s mouth up, and he shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “I promise you that. It seems we are as clueless as each other.” He crawled further up the bed, one hand framing Yuri’s head on either side as he loomed over him. Looking down at Yuri intently, he said, “Do you want this, are you certain?”

Yuri didn’t have to hesitate for a single second before nodding his head firmly. “I’m certain,” he whispered. “I want this. Please, Beka.” He didn’t know what it would be like, he didn’t know if he’d enjoy it or if it really had been built up as more than it actually was. But one thing he was sure of was that he wanted to discover those things with Otabek and nobody else, as Otabek was the one man he could say he trusted. His proper fiancé, if Lilia hadn’t ruined things.

Otabek nodded and gently slid a hand under the small of Yuri’s back to get him to sit up so he could slide the nightshirt over his head. Yuri never wore anything beneath his nightshirts, and so once Otabek had dropped it to the floor he was left entirely exposed. If he’d been self-conscious before about his body when they’d just been swimming, it was amplified a thousand times over now that Otabek could see every inch of him. Slowly, Otabek moved back down the bed, kissing Yuri’s chest as he went. His lips were soft and warm as they slid down inches of pale skin, catching at small freckles and ghosting over the dips of his ribs when he arched his back into Otabek’s touch.

Yuri gasped softly as he felt Otabek take one of his nipples into his mouth, tongue swirling lightly over it until it hardened into a dark pink little nub. He’d had no idea he was sensitive there, but Otabek’s mouth had heat pooling in his stomach and his body writhing desperately beneath him. It didn’t last as long as he hoped, as Otabek moved his lips further down his chest, across his flat stomach and down past his belly button until his head was hovering between Yuri’s legs, which had fallen apart for Otabek to lay between. He was so close that Yuri could feel the warmth of his breath on his inner thigh, and he knew what was about to happen only a split second before it did.

A moan escaped his lips at the unfamiliar sensation of a mouth around his cock, hot and wet and so intense Yuri thought for a moment that he might not be able to handle it. Otabek took him in slowly, the flat of his tongue running down his length while his hands gently pressed Yuri’s hips into the bed. His thumb rubbed slow circles into Yuri’s hipbone as he drew off his cock and began to bob his head in a steady movement, pausing occasionally to suckle at the head where Yuri was so sensitive it made him whimper and wriggle under his hands.

Yuri was doing his best to stay still but not to stay quiet, safe in the knowledge that nobody was there to hear them, a luxury he’d never experienced before. Whines and moans were drawn from him with each brush of Otabek’s hot tongue, with every stroke and tightened grip when Otabek added his hand around the base of Yuri’s cock to pleasure him while he worshipped the swollen pink head with his mouth. His fingers combed through Otabek’s hair lightly, his instincts telling him to grab and pull him closer but his willpower forcing him not to, and to grip the sheets beneath him instead.

All too soon, Yuri realised he was going to come undone from Otabek’s lips and the night would be over so quickly. He moved his hand to Otabek’s chin and gently pulled him off his cock, though it almost pained him to do so, and he heard himself moan at the loss of the wet heat around him. “Beka,” he breathed, trying his hardest to concentrate despite Otabek’s red, damp lips that were temptingly swollen in front of him. “I…you need to stop or I’ll…I don’t want this to be over already.” But something had to happen soon, his cock lay achingly hard and flushed purple against his stomach, desperate for a release that Yuri was depriving himself of.

Otabek’s nightshirt was covering his own erection, but his hand moved down to his lap and pressed against it as subtly as he could for some small semblance of relief. “How do you want to do this, then?” he asked, voice a little rough from taking Yuri down into his mouth. It was obvious he was desperate, as much as Yuri was, but he was doing his best to go at Yuri’s pace and not press for anything more. Yuri knew that if he wanted things to progress beyond what they had just done, he would have to be the one to ask for it.

Crawling closer to where Otabek was kneeling, Yuri gently manoeuvred him so he was sitting against the pillows with his back leaning on the wooden headboard. He didn’t know how Otabek’s leg was feeling, but he was cautious of the fact that any pain could bring the night to a complete stop. Once he was sitting the way he wanted Yuri carefully climbed into Otabek’s lap, facing him with his legs straddling his hips. “I want you,” he whispered, arms reaching round to lock behind Otabek’s neck. “The way the others talked about yesterday, by the lake. I want you…to take me.”

Otabek stared at him for a long moment before leaning in to kiss him deeply, their tongues sliding together as Yuri rolled his hips almost imperceptibly against Otabek’s. The lightest teasing to spur him into action, a seduction trick learned in the moment as Yuri became more well versed in how to get what he wanted. When they drew back, Otabek looked at him carefully and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, watching Yuri’s skin flush prettily in the wake of his touch. “It could hurt,” Otabek murmured, and he dropped his hand to run down the soft skin of Yuri’s arm, then back up again to rest on his delicate shoulder.

“I know,” Yuri whispered. He didn’t know, really – he’d made his guesses as to how it would feel to have Otabek inside him, but he didn’t know for sure. It wasn’t something he’d ever spoken to Victor about, and he knew that Mila’s experiences as a woman would be different to his own. But where he would have felt fear at the idea of being taken if he were having this conversation on his wedding night with a stranger, with Otabek he felt only anticipation and excitement, and that same coursing heat throughout his body that ached to discover the new pleasures this could bring. “Please. I know I want this, I’ve told you, I want this…”

“Alright,” Otabek said gently, before Yuri could become too worked up. He leaned in again and kissed him once more, softer this time, catching Yuri’s lower lip between his own to suck lightly until it was pink like a rose petal. When he drew back he cupped Yuri’s cheek in his hand and stroked his thumb over his high cheekbone. “We need oil,” he murmured. “We can’t do this without. There’s…there’s some in the washroom.”

Yuri gave a little nod and slipped carefully off Otabek’s lap, padding barefoot across the cool floorboards to get to the small adjoining room. There, beside the copper tub, were the small vials of oils that were used to put in water for bathing. His hand passed over the one that smelt of lavender, the one his brother always used in his baths, and instead plucked up the one that smelt of jasmine. It was less offending, less…memorable. When he walked back through the bedroom door, he was treated to the sight of Otabek’s tanned chest, now free of the nightshirt that had covered it.

As he approached the bed, it became obvious that Otabek also did not wear anything underneath his nightshirts, and Yuri’s mouth became a little dry at the sight of Otabek’s cock sitting bare and exposed against his leg. It was…large, much larger than Yuri’s, in length and girth. He had nothing else to compare it to, he didn’t even know if he himself was an average size, but he decided that most people would have to agree that Otabek was particularly…well-endowed. And yet when Yuri searched in his mind to see if he was having any second thoughts, he drew up blank. Any nerves he felt were overshadowed by his eager anticipation as he climbed back onto the bed and resumed his position in Otabek’s lap.

Wordlessly, Yuri passed the little vial of oil over to Otabek and watched him open it up to pour some onto his fingers. Yuri placed his arms back around Otabek’s neck and nodded slightly when Otabek sent an intent look his way, a silent last request for permission before he began. Moments later, Yuri felt Otabek reach around and touch him, gentle and slick from the oil. It was such an unfamiliar sensation that Yuri let out a soft breath and closed his eyes, tilting his hips back as he adjusted. Then, when he was relaxed, Otabek slowly pushed his finger inside him.

Yuri gasped and dropped his head to rest on Otabek’s shoulder, biting his lip. It didn’t really hurt, it just felt incredibly strange and new and ever so slightly uncomfortable when Otabek went a little deeper. His free hand came around to stroke up and down Yuri’s back soothingly, and when Yuri concentrated he realised Otabek was whispering softly into his ear, quiet praises and compliments that had him rolling his hips down against his hand. Otabek took it as a signal to move, and he gently slid his finger in and out of Yuri’s entrance, working him open gently and steadily.

After a while of rocking together and breathy, quiet moans falling from both of their lips, Otabek added another finger into Yuri as carefully as the first. This one hurt a little more, and Yuri whined into the column of Otabek’s throat as his hands tightened their grip around him. Otabek shushed him softly and allowed him his time to adjust before he once again started to move, spreading more oil on his twitching hole to make him more comfortable. This continued for longer than Yuri could measure, the soft and gentle preparation with Otabek’s whispered encouragement and Yuri’s needy moans. A third finger was added, and soon Yuri decided he was ready.

“Beka,” he hummed, lips ghosting over the warm skin of his throat as he spoke and sending a shudder down Otabek’s spine. “Please. Now, do it, I need it.” Yuri’s fingers scrabbled for the oil where they’d dropped it on the mattress, once again removing the cap. Only this time he poured the oil onto his own hand, reaching between them to slowly, hesitantly stroke up and down Otabek’s length. His hand just fit around him, and the strangled noise that he choked out as Yuri gripped his cock was enough to tell Yuri how desperate Otabek had become while he’d been preparing Yuri.

Once Otabek was coated in a generous amount of oil and more had been spread on Yuri’s entrance, Otabek took hold of his cock and positioned it to line up with his hole. “You…you need to…” he whispered, placing a hand on Yuri’s hip to gesture that he should slowly sink down. Nodding, Yuri bit down hard on his lip and lowered himself onto Otabek’s cock, crying out as the head pushed past his sensitive rim and his thick length slid inside him. It hurt, it did, and Yuri paused for a moment before allowing himself to go further. “Oh…oh god,” Otabek groaned, his head falling back against the bed. “Yura…you’re so tight…”

Yuri’s palms were sweaty and slick where they gripped Otabek’s shoulders, and once he was seated on Otabek’s length completely he simply clung on around his neck and held him close. He was panting into the heated skin of his shoulder with his eyes tight shut, adjusting to the feeling of being so full, and the slight burn that came from being stretched so far. Otabek’s hands came up to stroke through his hair and rub his back, and Yuri melted into his touch.

Yuri wasn’t sure how long they sat there before he finally whispered, “You can move.” He drew back enough to look Otabek in the eyes, kissing him gently at the first shallow thrust of Otabek’s hips. It fell to Yuri to do much of the work in their position and he soon fell into a rhythm, rolling his hips down to work Otabek’s cock in and out of his tight body. Soon the ache subsided and was replaced by intense pleasure, the desire to get more, faster, deeper. Yuri was whining and moaning with every grind and thrust, his fingernails digging little red crescents into Otabek’s shoulders as they moved together in frantic unison.

“Yura,” Otabek was mumbling, his hands weakly grasping Yuri’s hips to guide his movement. “Yura…so good, you’re so beautiful, so strong…” He sat up further and wrapped his arms around Yuri’s back to pull them closer, hot breath huffing against the side of Yuri’s neck as he reached down to take his cock in his hand and start stroking firmly.

Hips jerking into Otabek’s hand, Yuri began to move faster above him, bouncing his hips as his fingers scrabbled for purchase in his hair. His own hair fell across his face in a tangle as his cheeks turned pink from exertion, heat pooling in his stomach and making his gut feel tight like a coiled spring. “Beka,” he whimpered, yelping when Otabek chose that moment to brush his thumb over the tip of Yuri’s cock. “Beka, I…I can’t, it’s too much…”

Otabek’s lips found Yuri’s neck, mouthing hotly over the mark he’d made earlier with a kind of possessive fervour he’d never seen from him before. He thrust his hips a little harder and Yuri cried out as he hit something deep inside him, a bundle of nerves that had him seeing white stars exploding across his vision and trembling helplessly with pleasure. “It’s alright,” Otabek murmured, though it came out sounding like a rough growl with the way it reverberated against Yuri’s skin. “Come…come for me.”

Yuri didn’t need more encouragement, not with Otabek stroking him tightly and his cock sliding in and out of his body so sweetly. He moved faster, his movements losing all fluidity as he rutted against Otabek desperately and kissed him hard with a mess of tongue and gasped-out curses. Before he knew it, the coil in his stomach unravelled and his body was overcome with pleasure, releasing over Otabek’s hand and his own chest with a high moan.

He felt his body clench down tightly around Otabek’s length, and a moment later Otabek groaned low in his throat and gripped his hips hard as he came. Everything suddenly went still and quiet, their chests hitching with laboured breaths and Yuri’s body trembling uncontrollably where he’d collapsed against Otabek. He felt warm and full and complete, coupled with an exhaustion the likes of which he’d never before experienced, and a feeling of thorough satisfaction.

Otabek was the one to move first, lifting Yuri off him as gently as he could manage. It still stung a little, and Yuri whined as Otabek lay him down on the mattress beside him. He got out of bed and returned just a moment later with a soft cloth, which he used to first clean Yuri’s stomach before wiping between his legs and cleaning the oil off his own softening cock. Now they were done, Otabek’s cheeks were flushed pink with something like embarrassment, and he gently pulled the bed covers over Yuri’s body so he wasn’t just lying there completely exposed. Somewhere in Yuri’s sex-fogged mind, he found it endearing that Otabek would think to be respectful like that after what they had just done together.

When Otabek returned to the bed, he drew Yuri close to him and Yuri tangled their legs together immediately. Otabek’s chest was warm and soft to lay his head against, and once Otabek got his fingers in his hair Yuri found that sleep soon had him in its clutches. Part of him wanted to stay awake and talk to him, to prolong the moment for as long as he possibly could. Mila had been wrong, there was nothing about sex that had been built up as more than it really was. It was…overwhelming and heated and maddening, intimate and perfect and personal. Who knew what the fallout would be? Whether his future husband would somehow know what he had done, and no longer want him now he had been soiled. Whether he and Otabek would be able to do it again, without the uncertainty that came with it being the first time for them both.

“Are you alright?” Otabek whispered into the darkness, and Yuri realised that at some point the candle on the nightstand had burned out. His fingers were moving through Yuri’s hair gently, so tenderly it made Yuri’s chest ache. It didn’t seem fair, almost, that a man who had made him feel such unbearable pleasure just moments before could now make him feel as though he were something precious and fragile.

Yuri hummed his acknowledgement, too tired to formulate a proper response of words for him. Seconds later, he felt Otabek shift and a pair of lips press gently to his forehead, before his lover lay back and resumed stroking through his hair. It took Yuri no time at all, with the steady rise and fall of Otabek’s chest under his head and the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantel, to drift off into a deep and sated sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).
> 
> \--A quick note on the sex scene because I feel like I can't let it go by without clarifying some things: in my country, England, the age of consent is sixteen years old, as it is in both Russia and Kazakhstan. And that's in the modern, present day. This fic is set hundreds of years ago in the 1760s - for context, Marie Antoinette was married in 1770 when she was just fifteen years old, and Georgiana Cavendish (Duchess of Devonshire) was married in 1774 when she was seventeen years old. Obviously I'm not condoning marriage that young in a modern day environment, and I'm not even saying it was okay back then, I'm just using those two examples for context that, at the time that this fic is set, sixteen was a common age for relationships - including intimate ones - to begin taking place. As in all things, it's important there's a separation between what I write about, and what I actually believe to be right when it comes to real life. I hope I made it clear in the fic that there was explicit consent between Yuri and Otabek, and that the relationship they have is trusting and loving, and the final scene of this chapter was just an expression of that.--


	13. A Virtue Best Forgotten

Unlike the previous morning, Yuri awoke with the feeling of sunlight on his pillow and warm fingers trailing up and down the bare skin of his back. With a drowsy smile he rolled over onto his side and sought out Otabek’s chest, where he placed his head and curled in close. Otabek responded by wrapping his arms around him, and for a while the pair of them lay there in comfortable silence as birds sang outside the window and the shadows of leaves threw patterns over their skin.

Eventually, Otabek pressed his lips to the crown of Yuri’s head and murmured, “Good morning.” His voice was deep and rough from sleep, but warm as he drew Yuri closer still. Yuri propped his chin on his chest to look up at him and hummed in response as opposed to a greeting, admiring the way Otabek’s skin somehow seemed softer in the early hours of the morning. “Did you sleep well?” Otabek asked, reaching down to gently tuck some strands of gold hair behind Yuri’s ear.

Stretching like a cat, Yuri yawned and shifted himself so he was somewhat draped over his lover. “Mm, I did. And it seems you did too.” He smiled, pressing a feather-light kiss to his jaw where he could reach. “I’m glad you got some rest.” He absently stroked his thumb over one of Otabek’s defined cheekbones, feeling the slope of it under his smooth, tanned skin. It had been an uneventful night, no screaming or nightmares to wake them. Otabek had gone to sleep peaceful and woken that way too, and Yuri was incredibly grateful. Still, there was a dark cloud hanging over the mood, and Yuri decided he had to voice it so it wasn’t just hanging over them unspoken, “I leave to go back home tomorrow.”

Otabek sighed softly, his hand coming to rest on the back of Yuri’s head as if he didn’t want to let him go. “I know,” he murmured, and his voice sounded so heavy and burdened it made Yuri’s heart hurt. He looked down at Yuri with an unreadable expression for a few moments, then hummed and closed his eyes again, letting his head drop back down onto the pillow. “I didn’t hurt you last night, did I?”

Yuri was surprised that Otabek chose to talk about that, when they had such limited time together. Still, he supposed reflecting on the moment they’d shared together was rather…intimate, and if he navigated the conversation right, it could lead to them doing it again. “Of course not,” Yuri murmured, crossing his arms over Otabek’s chest and leaning on them lightly so as not to dig his elbows into him too hard. “No more uncomfortable at first than it would have been with anyone. It was perfect, Beka. Very skilled for a man who claims to never have been with anyone like that before.” He was teasing, and he let Otabek know it by grazing his teeth lightly over his jaw.

Otabek reached up with one hand and started to run his fingers over Yuri’s spine as he’d been doing earlier, staring at the ceiling pensively. “What did you know about sex before last night?” he asked quietly, sounding like he was very far away in his head.

Yuri sighed and shrugged lightly. “That it was inevitable,” he murmured. “And that I’d most likely experience it with one person my whole life, and that one person would be a man I did not choose.” He gave him a little smile, drawing patterns on Otabek’s bare chest with his fingertips. Otabek’s chest had a fine smattering of dark hair in the centre, stopping before it reached the dusky pink of his nipples, and it was all hard muscle under tan caramel-coloured skin. He was beautiful. “You can imagine how relieved I am that it hasn’t turned out that way.”

Otabek simply hummed in response, then said, “So you don’t regret it, then?”

“Of course not. Do you?”

At this, Otabek finally tore his gaze away from the ceiling and wrapped his arms properly around Yuri, pulling him up suddenly so they were sitting with Yuri in his lap. Yuri squealed at the unexpected switch of positions, but giggled as Otabek settled him back down comfortably with his legs around his waist. “I could never,” he murmured, stroking his thumb over Yuri’s cheek. Smiling warmly, he leaned in and kissed him, lips soft and sweet and lazy. Yuri felt Otabek’s tongue trail along his lower lip, and he pressed himself closer, intent on being with Otabek as many times as possible before he had to go home.

Except when he shifted his leg to press their naked bodies flush together, he felt something slightly rough rub against his skin. He blinked and drew back from Otabek far enough to look down between them, and for the first time, he saw the bandage wrapped around Otabek’s upper thigh. Slowly, he reached his hand down and touched the fabric gently. “You didn’t take this off last night,” he whispered.

Otabek smiled sadly and combed his fingers through Yuri’s hair. “There would have been no benefit in doing so. What’s underneath would hardly be considered arousing by anyone’s standards.” He rested his forehead on Yuri’s bare shoulder and closed his eyes. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

Yuri bit his lip and slipped off his lap, kneeling beside him instead. “Will you show me?” he asked, not moving to untie the bandage but clearly wanting to. He folded his hands in his lap and waited patiently for Otabek to make his decision. He knew he was injured, he’d seen the effects the injury had on Otabek’s movement and ease of lifestyle, but he’d yet to see what it actually looked like. Of course it would never put him off, he was just curious. And there was something inside him, a little ball of anger in the pit of his stomach as he was forced once again to confront the fact that it was his mother and father, Yakov and Lilia, who had sent Otabek to war.

Pausing for a moment, Otabek sighed softly and reached to carefully untie the bandage from around his leg. Yuri didn’t know what he’d been expecting – perhaps a naïve, childish part of him thought there would be blood and gore and the smell of broken flesh – but instead there was just a large expanse of Otabek’s thigh, right where it joined his pelvis, that was covered in dark pink scarring. It was raised and textured, white around the edges, and the skin looked almost shiny over the top of it. Yuri only realised that he’d been staring in silence when Otabek mumbled, “Please say something.”

Yuri glanced up at him. Otabek’s cheeks were pink and he’d turned his head away from the injury to avoid looking directly at it, and when Yuri paid closer attention he could see that his jaw was clenched too. “I expected it to be smaller,” he said eventually, because he might as well be honest now that Otabek was exposing himself like this, allowing himself to be vulnerable around him. “I thought…one bullet, it wouldn’t leave such a big scar.”

Otabek shook his head and sighed. “They couldn’t find the bullet, when it came time to take it out. To remove it they had to cut…” He paused, inhaling sharply through his nose and closing his eyes tightly. Immediately, Yuri reached up and cupped his cheek.

“You don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry, you can stop, I’m sorry.”

Again, Otabek shook his head. “It’s alright,” he said quietly. “Other people have asked who I trust far less than you. It just…doesn’t seem to get any easier each time.” He brought a hand up to his face and rubbed it tiredly. “They had to cut blindly around my leg to try and find the bullet, and then go in with forceps to pull it out. And then when they were done they…cauterised it to stop it bleeding, which is why the scarring is so extensive. There were so many people injured that they didn’t have time to put a poultice on it until the battle was over and we had returned to our tents.” He swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I’m fortunate it did not have to be amputated. It could have been much worse, and I am grateful that all I have to contend with is a little difficulty when walking.”

Yuri wore a deep frown as Otabek told him about what had happened, about the possibility he might have lost his leg completely – and if that had been the case, perhaps even his life, as the risk of infection was so high. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, crawling closer once more and resting his head on Otabek’s shoulder.

“I’m alright,” Otabek assured him, although his voice sounded distant. “The wound itself is the least of my worries. You’ve seen for yourself where the worst of the damage was done, and it wasn’t my leg.” He raised a hand to his head and tapped a finger lightly against the side of it, and Yuri’s stomach dropped painfully as he recalled the screaming and the thrashing that accompanied Otabek’s nightmares. He couldn’t even imagine what was going through his mind in those moments, such dark thoughts that Yuri would never have to experience for himself.

“Would you like to cover it?” Yuri asked, reaching down to gently pick up the ends of the bandage and place them over the wound to cover it from sight. “I appreciate you showing me. I didn’t mean to pry, I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

Otabek shook his head lightly, but reached down to tie the bandage together all the same. His posture seemed to relax once the wound wasn’t visible any more, his shoulders sagging a little and an exhale escaping his lips. “Thank you for not being scared,” he whispered, cupping the back of Yuri’s head and pulling him close for a kiss. It was soft and gentle, though Yuri could feel the desperation behind it. Slowly, carefully, he climbed into Otabek’s lap and straddled his hips with his arms looped around his neck.

“You will have to try much harder than that to scare me away,” he murmured, leaning in so their lips were mere inches apart. “So while you have me here, make the most of me.”

* * *

 

The remainder of their time together was bittersweet. Otabek played the piano properly for Yuri while Yuri did his best to dance alone in front of him, they read to one another out in the boat, and they walked together through the large gardens of the summer house so Otabek could show him each flower and vegetable and herb that grew there. When the time came for them to travel back to the palace in Almaty, they packed their things in silence and attached them to the horses’ saddles without a word. What could they say to each other, after all, when they knew that nothing would be enough to keep them together?

Their journey was equally as quiet, with Otabek only occasionally speaking to point out something that Yuri might find interesting, like the mountains or streams. Yuri wished he could find the words to say something, but he realised after several hours of travelling that what was preventing him was the knowledge that, if he opened his mouth, he would start to cry. Otabek seemed to understand and didn’t press him for conversation, and when they stopped for a quick lunch that they both tried to drag out for as long as possible, they sat close together with Yuri’s back against Otabek’s chest.

Back at the palace, the Russian carriages were already waiting near the gate for the family to leave. The horses had nosebags attached to them and were munching contentedly on oats in preparation for the long journey ahead, and the very sight of them made Yuri’s stomach coil as though he were about to be sick. He and Otabek dismounted before they reached the main gate, and as they had agreed with the others, they waited for Mila to arrive before they proceeded any further. After all, they had to maintain the illusion they had been travelling together.

That time came all too quickly. The sound of hooves approaching preceded their appearance, but then suddenly he and Otabek were no longer alone, they were once more under scrutiny even if just from their peers. Mila dismounted from her own horse, which was laden with hat boxes and garment bags from shopping in the city. Sara’s looked much the same, and the group was brought up at the rear by Michele and Emil, both of whom seemed relaxed from some time away from the palace. Mila locked eyes with Yuri and gave him an unreadable expression, but before he could ask what she wanted, the gates were being opened by servants and their horses were led through ahead of them. Mila’s boxes were transferred directly to the Russian carriages, while Sara’s were taken up the long driveway to be placed in the guest room where she was staying.

Yuri had thought he would have just a little more time in private to say goodbye to Otabek, but when he turned his head to the side he caught a glimpse of Yakov and Lilia moving towards them down the steps at the front of the palace, the dark material of their clothes like a void in the sunny outdoor weather. Yuri felt a flash of panic at the thought that he was going to be wrenched from Otabek so quickly, and he turned to look at him desperately as Mila and the others drifted away to give them some space.

“I don’t want to go,” he said, eyes wide and glazed with tears that threatened to fall any moment. He cursed himself for wasting the last moments they had together on their journey back, for not taking the time to kiss Otabek then and bid him a proper goodbye. Now they couldn’t even touch one another for fear of being seen – Yakov was already suspicious of Otabek’s intentions towards him, if he so much as kissed his hand in parting it would have too many implications. “I’ll miss you too much, I can’t…”

Otabek looked down at him sadly. “It will be okay,” he said, his voice strained. “I feel…selfish, wanting to keep you here for myself. But I think, when it comes to how I feel about you, selflessness is a virtue best forgotten.” He glanced up when the sound of Yakov and Lilia’s approaching footsteps became too close to ignore any longer, and he bowed to them respectfully. “Thank you for honouring us with your presence, your highness,” he said, straightening and trying his best not to look towards Yuri, who was beginning to sniffle and didn’t need any attention to be drawn to him.

Lilia nodded her head in response and moved to climb into her carriage, while Yakov gestured towards it to indicate that Yuri should join her there. He knew he couldn’t let that happen – one word from her about Otabek and he would lose his composure completely – so he shook his head and stalked off towards the carriage behind Lilia’s. “I want to ride with Mila,” he said, climbing in before Yakov could protest.

Mila looked back and forth between her uncle and the carriage, then quickly followed after Yuri and took the seat opposite him. After a moment of deliberation over whether he should argue the decision or not, Yakov sighed and went to join his wife in the front carriage. And then, all too soon, whips were cracked and the horses began to trot forward. Yuri twisted around in his seat and looked out of the back window, waving to Otabek with his other hand pressed to the glass desperately.

Otabek ran after the carriage as far as the gate, where he stopped and watched with a pained expression until the Russian procession had turned a corner and was completely out of sight. Only then did Yuri reluctantly turn and sit properly in his seat, his head hanging low and his hands limp in his lap.

It took several minutes for the silence in the carriage to be broken, but eventually Mila said quietly, “You’re crying.” She extended her hand, and in it was a soft lilac handkerchief, cotton with the embroidered initials ‘S.C.’ in one of the corners in neat cursive. Yuri didn’t comment on that, but he did accept the handkerchief to press under his eyes and catch the fat teardrops rolling down his cheeks. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” she asked softly, and it was one of the first times in his life that Yuri had seen her so full of genuine concern and no hint of humour.

Yuri shook his head and sniffed. “The opposite,” he said, allowing his hands to drop miserably back in to his lap as though all the fight had gone out of him. “He was…perfect. I love him, Mila.” He looked at her sadly, his eyes rimmed with red and glassy with tears. “How am I meant to marry a man when I know now for certain that he is not the one I love?” He paused, chewing his lower lip and watching out of the window as they travelled along the countryside road. “I was meant to be Otabek’s husband, did you know that? Mother had arranged it within weeks of my adoption. But then they found a better offer in Jean-Jacques, and to add fresh insult to injury, they broke off the engagement with Otabek.”

Mila’s eyes widened a fraction. “I did not know that,” she whispered, reaching across the space between them and covering his hand with her own gloved one. She squeezed it lightly. “You know there is nothing I can say that will make this better. All I can say is that I am glad, for your sake, that you were able to spend even a little time with the person you love.” She tilted her head to the side and drew back, replacing her hand in her lap. “It is rather serious, though. Love. Did something happen while we were gone…?”

A pink flush came over Yuri’s cheeks, and although he was embarrassed to be talking about such things with Mila, he had to admit that he was somewhat grateful for the distraction. “I hardly see how that’s any of your business,” he said tightly, although it was a vain attempt at brushing off a question that he knew Mila would demand an answer to. Eventually he relented and turned to look out of the window properly so he wouldn’t have to look her in the eyes when he said, “But you were wrong. It was just as monumental as it had been built up to be.”

There was a gasp, and then suddenly Mila was laughing, shifting to sit on the same seat as Yuri and dragging him into her arms. “Oh, Yuratchka!” she exclaimed, a bright smile on her face as she shook him happily back and forth. “I knew it! I knew this would happen! Oh, I am so proud! You must tell me everything, I want to hear all about it. Was he gentle? Demanding? Did it happen more than once?!” Her voice was rising several octaves with every question as she got more and more excited, and Yuri had to admit, her enthusiasm was infectious.

“It’s none of your business!” he said again, his voice cracking on the end into a little laugh. “Honestly, not all of us feel the need to bring out stories about our affairs while having a nice civilised picnic. Is nothing sacred to you, do you not believe in privacy?” He huffed and folded his arms, trying to twist and wriggle away from her tight hold but failing miserably to get very far.

Mila scoffed. “Oh, don’t be a prude now, you can’t fool me any more! You’re no longer an innocent, not that you were much of one before.” She reached her fingers up and started to pluck at the shirt collar around his neck, trying to peek down inside it to see his skin. “I bet he left a mark, didn’t he? Oh, you best hope none of the servants who draw your bath for it tell Uncle Yakov!” she cackled, the curls in her hair bobbing with the force of her laughter. “Come on, Yuri, let me see!”

“No!” Yuri yelped, waving his hands to try and swat her away. The next time anybody called Mila a ‘lady’ in front of his face was going to get laughed at and told how very, very wrong they were. Still, that didn’t stop him giggling madly as he tried to push Mila away as she got her hands inside his collar to inspect the red mark Otabek had left there with his mouth.

“Goodness, he must have been rather eager, hm? I take it he hadn’t done anything like that before, either? How romantic, that you could share a first time like that together.” Mila grinned and sat back in her seat, removing her gloves and folding them neatly in her lap so she could absently inspect her nails. Yuri offhandedly noticed that they seemed to have been clipped shorter than usual, almost no white visible at all. “What are you going to do now, then?” she asked, drawing his attention back to her face.

Yuri sighed and sank back into his seat, leaning his head against the window frame. “I don’t know,” he lamented. “I can’t just forget about what happened there. I can’t just forget about him, I mean it when I say I love him, and…I would like to imagine he feels the same about me. Neither of us want the future for me that my mother has chosen. But I don’t know how I can even speak to him when father has me under such close watch.”

The carriage fell silent for a while as Mila considered the situation, then she said, “I could send letters to him for you. It would be suspicious if you were seen sending multiple letters out of the palace – I suppose they could assume you were writing to Jean-Jacques, but they could check that was not the case far too easily. But my family are in Moscow, I often take letters out to be sent to them so nobody would suspect anything of me handing them over to the mail carrier and collecting them again when he replies. Then you can write to him as often as you like, private conversations that nobody else has to interfere in.”

It was such a sincere offer that Yuri felt his chest tighten a little. “Thank you,” he murmured, looking at her earnestly. “Really, Mila.” It put her at risk, of course, if anyone were to find out what she was doing she would be implicated in their entire affair. But if there was even the slightest opportunity for him to continue talking to Otabek, he had to take it. With him, for the first time Yuri had felt as though he were the only person who mattered, as though he wasn’t second best to someone else for once. There was mutual respect between them, and trust, and that was not something that Yuri was willing to give up too easily.

“You’re very welcome,” Mila said, smiling and going back to inspecting her nails.

That night they stopped at an inn to allow the horses to rest and be fed and watered, and once the family had dined together Yakov and Lilia returned to their room upstairs, leaving Mila and Yuri by the fire in the drawing room. Yuri was tired but he knew any attempt to go to sleep would be in vain, as his mind was too full of thoughts concerning Otabek. So instead he and Mila stayed together and talked idly about small things – the décor in the inn and how it differed from Russian décor, the different things Mila had bought while she had been in the city, and they even gossiped a little about the nature of the relationship between Michele and Emil.

At one point, Yuri gave Mila a coy little smile and said, “And what of the relationship between you and Sara?” which sent Mila off laughing again as she tossed one of her new shoes at him to get him to be quiet. It made him laugh too, and they spent most of the night that way, exchanging little quips and good-naturedly teasing one another about their respective, secret affairs.

Because they had stayed up the whole night, the following day of travelling was spent sleeping in the carriage. They arranged themselves so they were sat beside one another on one of the seats, leaning their shoulders and heads together for support, with their feet up on the opposite seat so they could stretch out while they slept. They’d always been close as cousins, but Yuri suspected that now he had ‘matured’ and experienced things that Mila apparently found incredibly entertaining to talk about, they were going to become even closer as time went on. And it was nice – one of his fears about leaving the palace in Almaty had been that he would go back to Russia and once again be isolated and alone, but perhaps it wouldn’t be such an awful thing if Mila was prepared to talk to him more frequently.

They spent the remainder of their journey amusing themselves in any way they could. They took turns twisting each other’s hair into intricate braids and sculpted styles, they played as best a game of cards as they could with how much the carriage was rattling about on the uneven road surface, and they talked about the books that Yuri and Otabek had read out in the gardens at the summer house. The journey back to St Petersburg felt so much longer than the journey to Almaty, because Yuri knew that what awaited them there was simply a countdown to the point where his entire life as he knew it would be irreparably changed forever.

By the time they arrived back in Russia and trundled through the streets of St Petersburg, it was dark outside and Yuri was very much ready to go to bed. At their last rest stop Yakov and Lilia had asked if he and Mila were likely to want feeding when they both arrived back at the palace, and they had both said no, that they would much rather sleep and have a larger breakfast in the morning after such a long time travelling. Yuri knew sleep wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying without a warm body beside him in his bed, but he was fortunate at least that he was so tired he would drift off easily.

Servants came to meet them at the palace gates when they arrived, and their luggage was taken wordlessly to be brought in to their rooms. Yuri was so tired when he stumbled out of his carriage that he barely took any notice of what was going on around him, so he didn’t hear when one of the servants hurried up to Yakov and tried to tell him something in an urgent tone, only to be told, “I will deal with any business tomorrow, now I must rest,” in Yakov’s rumbling voice. He continued up the steps to the palace with Lilia at his side, and Yuri leaned heavily on Mila as the pair of them made their way in after them.

Yakov and Lilia turned to the left once they were inside the entrance hall, clearly on their way to the drawing room. Yuri supposed they were not as tired as he was, since they most likely slept at each inn stop as opposed to staying up all night talking. Yuri yawned and removed his jacket, thanking the servant who took it from him before making his way across the marble floor to the grand staircase so he could retire to bed.

Before he could set foot on the first step, Yakov’s voice came flooding through the halls in an echoed cry, “My son! My son!”

Yuri broke away and tore off running down the corridor, not knowing why his father was calling to him but being so startled by the sudden exclamation that he wouldn’t hesitate to follow his voice. He could hear Mila’s footsteps behind him and the swish of her skirts against the floorboards, he could hear his own blood pumping in his ears as he rounded the doorway to the drawing room and breathed, “Father, what did you…”

Lilia was sitting in her chair with a hand pressed to her forehead and another to her breast. In the chair opposite, a young man with dark hair and foreign features looked down at his lap. And in the centre of the room, Yakov was tightly embracing a man Yuri didn’t think he would ever see again.

At the sound of his voice Victor drew back from their father and looked at him with bright eyes, a nervous smile on his lips as he exhaled, “Yuri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	14. Homecoming Festival

“It was beautiful. Small, yes, but oh! It was just so perfect. We went to Switzerland in the end, I don’t imagine it would have been easy for us to get back into Japan and it seemed silly to waste the lovely scenery near Christophe’s palace. I do wish you could have been there; we had a view of the mountains, there were wild flowers all over the grass…”

Yuri drained his third glass of wine that evening and set it back down on the table with a thud. Victor had been talking about he and Yuuri Katsuki’s wedding for the past hour with barely a single pause, except to take a bite of food or a sip of his drink. Despite the late hour and despite the fact they had been travelling for days in stifling heat, Yakov had insisted the cooks be woken up and a spread be laid out on the dining table in honour of his eldest son’s return. He had also assured everyone that a far more lavish celebration would be arranged once the announcement of his return to the palace was made public, but considering the restrictions of the late hour, the dinner was just the first step towards welcoming him home.

Mila, having been laced into her corset for over sixteen hours by that point, was falling asleep in her chair with her cheek propped on her hand. The servers that came and went from the dining room were stifling yawns as they leaned over to pour drinks and collect plates, and Yuri himself had been stewing in anger and drinking as much as he pleased in a desperate attempt to get himself through the night. Fortunately for them all, Yakov and Lilia only had eyes for Victor, their gazes akin to the look of a devout Christian who had just witnessed the appearance of an archangel. Yakov kept making pleased noises at every small detail Victor bestowed upon them while Lilia nodded serenely with the most unusual smile on her face.

The worst part about it all was that Yuri just didn’t care. When Victor had initially gone missing over a year ago, Yuri would have done anything to bring his older brother back. He would have traded places with him, walked over hot coals, given up every worldly possession to have him safely back in the palace. But all of that, everything, had changed once they’d received the letter about his marriage. Victor was no longer a victim to be saved, he was a traitor to his family and, most importantly, to his brother. And now Yuri couldn’t think of something he wanted to do less than sit and listen to him talk about his ridiculous farce of a wedding. He wanted to be back in Almaty with Otabek, under the sun and above the water in the rowboat on the lake.

“…And there was simply no time for a cake to be made so instead we had the most incredible chocolates that were made with milk from the local farms. We sent some for Yura’s birthday, perhaps you tried one? It was so rich, I could eat just that for the rest of my life and be happy about it…Yuuri’s favourites had honey inside them too, they were lovely…”

Victor didn’t even look the same as he had done when he’d left. Gone was the long hair that had been braided so neatly by Yuri’s own fingers the last time he’d seen him. Now it was short, cut close to his head and flopping over his blue eyes effortlessly. When had that happened? Before the wedding, or after? Were there now portraits of him with that hairstyle, with his stupid new husband standing by his side in front of the monstrous Swiss Alps he was so romantically depicting?

Katsuki himself hadn’t said a single word since sitting down for dinner. If Yuri hadn’t heard him speak English all those months ago at Victor’s birthday celebration, he would be doubting whether he knew the language at all. He didn’t speak Russian, that much was certain, as the few times Lilia had attempted to ask him a question Victor had had to translate, and even then the man’s only response was a timid nod or head-shake. He was meek, he was mousy and shy, undeserving of the title of the man who took Victor from the world.

Yuri was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t realise he was being spoken to. He was only snapped out of his own head when Mila reached out and gave his arm a half-hearted shove, looking so exhausted herself that Yuri wondered why she didn’t just excuse herself to go and remove her corset for bed. He looked up to see who had spoken to him, only to see Victor staring at him hopefully across the table with that same idiotic half-smile on his face as he’d worn when he’d greeted him.

Yuri didn’t say a word.

Clearing his throat, Victor’s smile wavered only slightly as he repeated, “I asked if you enjoyed the chocolates we sent for your birthday.” His hand was covering Katsuki’s on the table, their fingers intertwined and the gold rings they wore glinting obnoxiously under the light of the candles. Yakov wasn’t looking at Yuri to await his reply, he was taking a drink. Lilia wasn’t looking either, she was examining the stem of her glass. Nobody around the table, save perhaps for Mila, cared at all about what Yuri had to say.

Without responding Yuri scraped his chair back and stood up, the noise deafening in the otherwise silent room. He cast Victor one last blank stare before turning on his heel and leaving the room in quick strides, not looking back over his shoulder once. As he made his way down the long corridor he could hear Yakov’s deep voice start up the conversation once more as though nothing had happened, asking something along the lines of, “Did you go elsewhere on your travels?”

Yuri marched himself upstairs to his bedroom, where the servants had left his trunks from Kazakhstan. The first thing he did was go to one of them and open it up to pull out the shirt he had worn on their very last day at the summer house, pressing it to his nose to inhale the scent of flowers and cut grass that still lingered on the fabric. He would give anything to be back there now with Otabek; it seemed like another world, a far cry from the gloom of St Petersburg. He took the shirt with him and went to go and sit himself in the window seat to look out at the courtyard. It was in pitch darkness now with only one lamp attached to the outside wall to illuminate the small space. Now that he really focused, he could see a carriage there that did not belong to them that Victor and Yuuri must have travelled in. How had he missed that before? He’d been too tired, he supposed, and not exactly expecting to be visited by his traitorous brother and his new whore of a husband.

“Yuri?”

Yuri glanced up and glared at the door, where Yuuri Katsuki was hovering like a pale apparition. “It speaks,” he announced humourlessly, turning his gaze back to the window and hugging the shirt imperceptibly closer to his chest. He had no interest whatsoever in talking to this imposter, this traitor who dared come into his home and who had allowed Victor to completely ruin his life.

And yet, Yuuri moved further into the room, coming to stand beside the window seat with his hands folded in front of him. It reminded him of the way all his tutors used to stand by his desk while he wrote, to check that his work was correct, and it instantly deepened his hatred of him. “You have heard me speak before,” he said, and if Yuri was disgusted to see the smallest hint of a smile on the idiot’s face, faint but definitely there. What, was he proud of the trouble he had caused? Did he find something amusing about what he had done?

“When you were seducing Victor, yes,” Yuri muttered, refusing to look around at him. He could see his reflection in the dark window and that was just enough for him.

Yuuri sighed softly and moved away a few steps, and for a brief moment of bliss Yuri thought he was going to leave the room and let him alone. But then he came back, this time dragging the chair from in front of Yuri’s dresser so he could sit and be at eye-level with Yuri – if he would turn to look at him, of course. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Victor has told me lots of stories about you – you like to ice skate too, he says.” That was right – Yuri’s lasting impression of him was that he was a harlot, the fact he’d originally come to the palace to perform on the ice had almost been forgotten.

Yuri remained silent.

Once again, there was a deep sigh before Yuuri said quietly, “You’ve upset him, I think.” His voice didn’t sound accusatory, just irritatingly gentle and matter-of-fact.

That, that was too much. Had Yuuri tried any vain attempt at extending an olive branch or forming a friendship Yuri would have been able to ignore him easily, but there was no way he could sit quietly and let Victor play the innocent victim now that Yuri was choosing not to speak to him. Victor was upset by Yuri’s behaviour? How on earth did he think Yuri felt about the way he himself had acted? Yuri wanted to scream, he wanted to throw a tantrum like a child about how unfair it all was, but he couldn't lose his composure now. “And why do you think this matter is any business of yours?” he muttered through gritted teeth, tightening his hands around the shirt in his lap.

In the reflection of the window, he saw Yuuri blink twice. Perhaps in surprise that Yuri had strung together a longer sentence, perhaps in surprise that he had the gall to speak back to him. Because technically, Yuuri Katsuki now held a higher status than Yuri himself. But Yuri was determined not to let him get any delusions of grandeur from his newfound place in the hierarchy – he did not belong at the palace and Yuri would remind him of that at any given opportunity. “He is your brother,” Yuuri supplied gently.

At that, Yuri spun around to face him and clenched his hands into fists. “And this is not about him. For once, he must understand that. He is the one that caused this situation – as are you – but that is as far as his involvement extends. He needs to get it into his head that the way I am behaving has little to do with him and everything to do with the state my life has come to. I have every right to be cold towards him but he is not the only person I am acting that way towards, and he has the least right to complain out of anyone.” By the time he finished speaking his breathing had quickened and his cheeks were flushed, and he sank back into the window seat with his head leaning on one of the glass panes.

Blessedly, Yuuri was silent. He sat and looked at him with an unreadable expression, his hands resting on his knees.

“Get out,” Yuri muttered. “I have no interest in speaking to the prize pig Victor has dragged in.” No doubt a remark like that would make its way back to Victor, and by extension Yakov, but Yuri was beyond the point where a scolding could hurt him. He had already had all he truly desired taken away from him, there was nothing left for them to strip him of. “And I will not speak to anybody else, either. You can tell your husband I will not see him, I will not even look at his face. The only guest I will have here is Mila, she is the only family I have.”

Yuri didn’t look up from the window to watch Yuuri leave, but he could hear the floorboards beneath his feet creak as he stood up and replaced the chair to its spot by the dresser, then the door opening and closing softly behind him. And then Yuri was alone, and the first of many tears rolled unbidden down his cheeks and splashed onto the shirt that now covered his chest like a blanket. He sat there for so long, crying silently at first before sobs were wracked out of his body uncontrollably, that he eventually drifted into an uneasy sleep with his cheek against the cold windowpane and the shirt crumpled in his lap.

 

* * *

 

 

The following morning, Yuri awoke early and scrubbed his face with the hot water the servants brought him to remove any traces of tear marks from his cheeks. He dressed in his heavier clothes that had been left behind during his trip to Almaty, allowing various pairs of anonymous hands to button him into his jacket and tie his hair back with a ribbon of the corresponding colour. He felt weighed down by the garments he wore, which was silly as he’d worn similar clothes to the ball on his first night in Kazakhstan, but now in his mind he associated the country only with the light clothes he’d worn by the lake at the summer house.

He chose not to take breakfast with the rest of the family, instead requesting that one of the servants bring him something simple that he could eat alone in his bedroom. While Yuri waited for his food to be brought to him he sat at his writing desk and drew down a sheet of paper, dipping his quill into the pot of ink that rested beside him. He had no intention of waiting weeks or even just days before writing to Otabek, he wanted to hear back from him as quickly as possible. Conversation between the two of them had flowed easily back in Almaty, but now that it came time for him to write down his feelings on paper, he found himself struggling. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then began to write,

 

_Beka,_

_I wanted to write to you the second I arrived back in St Petersburg so that this letter could be in this morning’s post, but so much happened last night upon our return that there was no time to sit down and compose anything worth sending to you. Victor has now come back to court and brought his new husband, who tried to talk to me yesterday evening as though I had anything to say to him. I wish you were here with me so I did not feel quite so alone; Mila has agreed to take letters to post for me and bring me yours in return, so you needn’t worry about anything you write passing under Yakov or Lilia’s prying eyes. I do not know what to do. My position is now uncertain – will Victor once again take on the duties he left me with when he disappeared, or will they still fall on me to carry out? Does this affect my engagement to Jean-Jacques? Unfortunately I doubt it. I miss you already, and had I known this was what I would be returning to in Russia I would have refused to leave Almaty altogether. I want to thank you for the time we spent at the summer house, it was perfect. You were perfect. Please do write back, hearing from you might make all this more bearable._

_Yours always,_

_Yuri_

 

He was in the process of sealing the letter into an envelope and stamping it with the wax crest of Russia when the door opened and breakfast was brought to his room, followed shortly by Mila, who swept in wearing a deep purple dress and the ostentatious jewellery she was now reunited with. The servant placed his breakfast tray down on a side-table before bowing and leaving in silence, and Yuri waited for the door to close before rolling his eyes at Mila. “Did you sense I have something for you?” he asked, waving the small envelope in her direction.

Mila smirked and plucked it out of his fingers, checking to make sure the wax seal was dry before slipping the envelope between her breasts inside her dress. The safest place for it, Yuri supposed – it was unlikely anyone in the palace would be brave enough to search there. “You seem to be in better spirits this morning,” she noted, sitting on the end of his bed and leaning back on her hands.

“Compared to what?”

“Did you forget my rooms are close by yours? I heard you in here last night, you were crying.” Mila tilted her head to the side and patted her chest lightly, over where she’d stashed the letter. “Writing to him has cheered you up already, hm? Who knew the Prince of Kazakhstan would be able to melt the ice prince’s heart so easily? I will deliver it to post tomorrow morning and we will simply have to hope for a punctual reply.” She grinned lazily.

Yuri scoffed and threw a grape from his fruit bowl at her, which bounced off her shoulder and rolled across the floor onto the hearth. He’d sweep it into the fire later, the latest offering of food to be used as kindling. “Did you have something you wanted to discuss with me?” he asked, popping the next grape into his mouth and standing up to go and sprawl out on his bed behind her. Mila lay back and rested her head on his arm, the pair of them staring up at the velvet canopy above them.

“Mm, I did. But you won’t like it, I’m afraid.”

Yuri sighed. “Can I guess? My father has rallied the people with news of their long-lost prince having returned to the city, and the celebrations are to commence within a matter of hours.” His voice couldn’t have held any greater sense of boredom even if he’d tried, his disdain ringing clear and true in every single word.

Mila smirked. “You’re close, but it is a matter of days, really. Apparently there is to be a public festival of sorts to celebrate his homecoming, all at the expense of the family of course. Apples dipped in caramel for the children, sweetmeats, flowers, lanterns – and Yuuri Katsuki is going to give a special dance performance to honour his marriage to Victor.”

“Hah! What a wonderful idea, let’s all revel in the very thing that caused this mess in the first place,” Yuri muttered, rolling onto his stomach and propping his chin up on his hand to look at Mila. “I don’t suppose this will be an international affair, would I be too optimistic to hope for foreign visitors coming to express their joy at his return…?”

“Otabek will not be coming, no,” Mila said flatly, giving his arm a light shove. “Be patient, Yuri. I know you want to hear from him again very badly, but absence makes the heart grow fonder. I am certain that however often you think of him while the pair of you are apart, he is thinking about you twice as much. He is completely smitten with you; Sara and Michele were telling me they’ve never seen him open up to another person so quickly, apparently he’d usually rather reserved and quiet.”

Yuri sighed and let himself fall back down onto his stomach. “Patience is not a virtue I have been blessed with,” he mumbled, his voice slightly muffled by the quilt.

“You don’t say?!” Mila gasped, grinning and leaning down to gently kiss the top of Yuri’s head. “Have faith, little cousin, if you cannot have patience. I will send the letter and as soon as he replies, I will bring that to you too. You have to trust in my abilities to be an efficient messenger. And you can be assured that my own interests are at stake here too – I happen to be sending my own letters along with yours, so I would stand to gain absolutely nothing by shirking my duties as designated post-carrier.”

Yuri turned his head to the side and opened one eye, a small smile ghosting over his face. “Letters to Sara…?”

 

* * *

 

 

The day of Victor’s festival transported Yuri back in time to over a year ago, to the birthday celebration that had marked Victor’s departure from the country and from his life. Unlike his birthday, however, the festival was far more public. The gates of the palace grounds had been opened to the people of St Petersburg, and on the rolling lawns surrounding the building a number of tents and stalls had been set up to entertain the crowds.

Yuri had been assigned a guard to walk with him while he interacted with everyone, although he was reluctant to become involved in the festivities in any manner. He ambled aimlessly from stall to stall, taking a brief look at what was on offer before moving along. He decided that if he could make a single circuit of the grounds, perhaps two, then he could feign nausea or a headache and be excused from suffering through Katsuki’s dance performance, which was sure to be less impressive given the absence of any ice. And now that Victor was married to him he would not have to act indifferent towards the display, and Yuri refused to watch him fawn over the man from the royal podium.

Some stalls were selling foods, sweet things for children and different kinds of meat and stew for the older citizens. There was a stall selling sbiten, which Yuri thought particularly out of place considering it was summer, while another stall sold cooler drinks flavoured with various crushed fruits. On a larger expanse of lawn different games had been set up for people to try their hand at – archery, bowls, tennis – and a small pony from the stables had even been trotted out for very young children to take rides on. There were also stalls selling small trinkets, little bracelets made of string dyed to be the colours of the Russian flag that many of the young girls purchased to wear proudly around their skinny wrists.

After seeing too many of those girls wandering past with blind pride for their long-lost prince, Yuri decided he’d had quite enough of the celebration and made his way back inside the palace where he could be alone. The palace itself was off limits to the public, meaning that once he was through the doors he could dismiss the guard that had been acting as his shadow and gain a moment of privacy for himself. He walked briskly to the library where the sounds of chatter and laughter outside was the least audible given the lack of many windows, and collapsed into an armchair in front of the unlit fireplace.

It was a farce. Victor was a traitor, nothing more. The people in the gardens were acting as though he had returned successfully from a war, not willingly abandoned his country for the sake of a foreign lover. Victor had not suffered, he had not been held anywhere against his will or forced to do anything he did not want, and yet he was welcomed back to Russia as a beloved hero while Yuri was cast aside into irrelevancy. In the past Yuri had hungered for this, to be able to disappear from the public eye and live his life as he wished to live it. But this was different – he was still being told what to do, who to marry, but nobody recognised the sacrifice he was having to make. Nobody wanted to acknowledge it.

Yuri was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of the library door opening, and he prepared himself to string together his headache excuse in case the visitor was Yakov or Lilia. But no, they wouldn’t leave the festival with Katsuki’s performance starting so soon, so it couldn’t be them.

“I knew I would find you up here.” Mila’s head poked around the door first before she entered the room properly, the skirts of her yellow dress bringing sunshine to the otherwise grey skies around the palace. “I brought something for you. Two things, actually.” She turned back towards the door and grinned, clapping her hands twice. “Georgi, come on, if you leave it open too long you’ll attract unwanted attention.”

A year ago Yuri would have groaned at the thought of spending time with his more distant cousin, but considering the amount of people he’d been forced to alienate over the past several months he welcomed a less familiar face. Sitting up a little straighter in his chair, Yuri watched as Georgi slipped into the room and closed the door quietly behind him, turning the key in the lock upon Mila’s instruction. Georgi was dressed nicely, his outfit somewhat coordinated with Mila’s in the hints of yellow and burnt orange on his jacket. He looked less haggard than the last time Yuri had seen him; the city didn’t suit him, he flourished better in smaller villages.

“I told him everything, I hope you don’t mind,” Mila was saying as she approached his chair, taking a seat on the matching ottoman and arranging her skirts neatly. “I thought you might like to have another person on your side, in case I’m ever too preoccupied to talk. Georgi has said you can write to him about anything, isn’t that right, Georgi?”

She received a nod in response, and although Yuri already knew he wouldn’t be writing to Georgi about anything remotely personal, the gesture was still appreciated. “Are you in here to escape the festivities too?” Yuri asked, watching Georgi move to take up a chair from one of the tables across the room and bring it over to sit. Ever the gentleman, he allowed Mila to transfer herself from the ottoman to the chair before taking the place she’d just vacated. One day, Yuri thought, he would find a wife who would likely be pleasantly surprised by his manners, if by nothing else about him.

Mila nodded. “Partially. I also find it too humid outside, and I wanted to sit…oh! And I have my second thing to give you…” She grinned and reached into her dress, producing from it a neat envelope with a blue wax seal that Yuri immediately recognised from the invitation that had been sent to them at the beginning of summer. He grabbed for it and snatched it out of her hand, which set her off snickering at how eager he was. Even Georgi smiled serenely.

The first thing Yuri noticed about the envelope was that it was heavier than normal, and thicker too. Something had been stuffed in there that wasn’t just flat paper, and Yuri cracked open the seal desperately to get inside. He tipped the contents of the envelope out onto his lap, revealing a folded letter and a small, blue velvet pouch with a gold drawstring keeping it closed. Despite his curiosity about the contents of the pouch, his need to read Otabek’s words won over and he picked up the letter first.

 

_Dearest Yuri,_

  
_I don’t know what to say about Victor’s return. I know how much you were hurt by his leaving but aside from that I know little of your relationship with him, so it is not for me to say if you should forgive him and reconcile or continue to turn him away. What I can say is that you are strong, and I have confidence that whatever decision you make will be the right one. I have to admit I found it unexpectedly difficult to sit and write to you like this – now that we have such limited means of speaking to each other I feel the pressure of making every single word count. But rest assured I will continue to reply to every letter you send me, even if it takes me hours to think of the right words to express how I feel. I thought perhaps I would begin by returning something to you that should never have been taken; I hope this inspires you to write to me again soon._

_All my love,_

_Otabek_

 

Yuri blinked and set the letter aside, staring down at the pouch in his lap. He didn’t need to open it to know what was inside, but it had been so long since he’d seen it in person that it took him no time at all to carefully loosen the drawstrings and tip the gift out onto his palm. Mila and Georgi leaned in closer to see what he held – a necklace with a delicate chain, and hanging from it a white enamel lily with its petals dipped in gold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	15. Marital Woes

Over the course of the following months, Yuri and Otabek wrote to each other as frequently as they were possibly able. The moment a letter arrived at one of the palaces, the recipient would read it and immediately sit down to pen a reply, waxing poetic about their memories of the short time they’d spent together in Almaty, and wishing profusely that they could see each other again soon. No more gifts followed after the necklace that Otabek had sent in his first letter, as gifts were far more difficult to smuggle and hide than envelopes, but Otabek had taken to drawing small sketches of things he remembered particularly fondly. The first had been a detail of Yuri sitting by the lake, looking out over the clear water where the rowboat was just half-drawn at the edge of the paper. Yuri had attempted to draw something for him in return, although he lacked all the necessary skills and what he produced was simply a feeble impression of the sunlight coming in through the bedroom window at the summer house. Otabek had written back to thank him for the drawing, and to subtly hint that he needn’t reply to every sketch with one of his own.

Yuri spent so much time dedicated to the writing of his letters that he barely left his rooms. He was still studiously avoiding Victor and Katsuki with every fibre of his being, going out of his way to lurk down the servants’ staircases simply to avoid taking the route down the corridor outside Victor’s chambers. Avoiding them was one thing, but if he had to be subjected to hearing any of their private intimate moments he was sure he would shoot himself. At dinner he positioned his chair at the very end of the table between Mila and Georgi, whose mother had permitted him to remain at court now that the scandal of Victor’s disappearance had been alleviated.

Occasionally, since she was the only person Yuri could truly confide in, Mila would come to his rooms and they would sit together and read their letters from their respective secret affairs. In the interest of keeping their correspondence a secret from Yakov and Lilia, all letters sent by Otabek and Sara were simply addressed to ‘The Family’, so that if anyone found them they would be dismissed as letters of admiration from subjects, and largely ignored. This system was convenient, but it meant that deciding which letter belonged to who became a very dangerous operation. Should the wrong letter fall into either of their hands, they risked being exposed to all manner of graphic descriptions of intimacy or risqué sketches of compromising positions. To date, it had only happened on one occasion, when Yuri had been unfortunate enough to crack the wax seal on a letter only to be greeted with the heady scent of female perfume and a crude drawing of a large pair of breasts. He didn’t hold on to the letter for long enough to discern whether they were meant to be Mila or Sara’s, he simply folded the paper and flung it as hard as he could toward his cousin before she could open the one in her hands that was intended for him. And it was a lucky thing that she hadn’t got the chance to see inside it, for it happened to contain a rather romantic sketch of a naked Yuri draped over a bed. Since that mistake, Yuri had taken to smelling the envelopes before attempting to open them, since those sent from Sara had always been scented with enough perfume to knock out an entire army.

It became rather easy to forget that Yuri still suffered from the looming responsibility of marriage when he was so wrapped up in his long-distance affair with Otabek. Everything else faded into the distance when he could stay awake at night and read over the long letters that seemed to almost take on the shape of a novel, mapping out a romance and a life together that they hadn’t yet had the chance to live. It wasn’t until one morning at breakfast, on one of the rare occasions that Victor and Katsuki were mercifully not present, that he was forced back into the reality of his situation. He’d been quietly chewing on a piece of toast and jam and staring out of the window to watch the rain when Lilia suddenly tapped her plate with her knife and cleared her throat quietly.

“I would like you to write to Jean-Jacques,” she said, her voice ringing clear across the table.

It struck Yuri that this was the first thing his mother had said to him in weeks. Given the fact he was so preoccupied with his own affairs, and Yakov and Lilia were so smitten with the return of their favourite son, conversations between he and his parents had been restricted to passing comments of ‘fix your collar’ or ‘be dressed for dinner at eight’. To be spoken to so directly all of a sudden was somewhat jarring after such a long period of near-silence. Yuri didn’t even have a chance to collect his thoughts and form a reply before Lilia continued to talk.

“I find it odd that you are finding ways to occupy so much of your time recently and yet there has been no contact between you and your betrothed. We do not want the French court to perceive us as rude, so I would implore you to take up writing to him as often as you are able. This marriage is to proceed in just over a year, and regardless of whether or not it shall be a happy one, it must be a stable one. And that simply cannot happen without some communication. Do not make the mistake of thinking that because Victor has returned, you are no longer required to marry. This union was arranged long before Victor chose to wed and it will not be dissolved now that he is home. Do you understand?”

The toast in Yuri’s mouth suddenly felt like sand, and he had to force himself to swallow it before pushing the remainder of the food on his plate away. “Yes,” he said quietly. He understood perfectly, it just left an awful sour taste in the back of his throat, like bile. Just over a year, had the time really slipped by that fast? It was approaching winter, after all, and come March he would turn seventeen. And then came the twelve-month countdown towards his eighteenth year, where the wedding would no doubt be planned as promptly following his birthday as possible. “Excuse me.” He stood up from the table and left the room without another word, ignoring Lilia’s sigh and Yakov’s gruff hum of disapproval.

Yuri didn’t take himself back to his bedroom to write the letter, because that felt too personal. His bedroom was where he wrote to Otabek, where he could sit and look at his bed and try to visualise the pair of them laying there together, tangled and naked in the sheets. He couldn’t sit in the same place to write to a man for whom he held no feelings whatsoever, it would feel as though he were being unfaithful to the man he truly loved.

So instead, Yuri walked to the library and sat himself down at the writing desk, pulling a sheet of paper close to him and readying his ink. Although the first letter he had sent to Otabek had been difficult to put down in words, after that they had flowed so easily they could have been having a proper conversation. But this felt different; the problem wasn’t that Yuri simply had too much to say as he did to Otabek, instead the problem was that he had absolutely nothing he wanted to talk to Jean-Jacques about. He’d already sent the brief letter congratulating him on his safe return from the war, and that was really the only thing that Yuri knew about him or would be inclined to talk about. Yet he highly doubted he would want to be reminded of war now that he was home within the gilded walls of Versailles.

Yuri’s train of scattered thoughts was interrupted by the library door opening and closing softly, and the swish of skirts making their way across the floor. He didn’t have to look up to know that it was Mila, since she hadn’t been at breakfast and seemed to have a knack of knowing where he was at all times. He did, however, look up when he heard the unmistakable sound of sniffling in place of her usual cheerful greeting. Mila’s eyes were red and glossy with tears, her face splotched and nose running.

“Mila,” Yuri breathed, standing quickly and going over to her. She immediately gripped onto him and dragged him against her chest for a tight embrace, her shoulders trembling. “What happened? Are you alright?” For a disgusting, awful moment, Yuri feared the worst and became convinced something had happened to Otabek. Perhaps his leg hadn’t healed as well as the doctors had thought, and an infection had claimed him? Or perhaps the injury made it impossible for him to stay on his horse at a gallop, and he’d been thrown to the ground or flung against a tree? Such were the morbid thoughts running trough his head that he wasn’t at all prepared for what actually came out of Mila’s mouth, which was,

“Sara has been married.”

Yuri froze and drew back to stare up at her. “Married? No. Surely not.” He’d been so absorbed in his own marital woes that he hadn’t expected himself to be so moved by Mila’s, and yet he felt ready to ruin the man or woman who had come between she and Sara. “To who? Anybody with a pair of eyes in their head could see that you and Sara should be together.”

Mila sighed and sank down onto the chair opposite the desk, and Yuri took it as a cue to take up position where he’d been sitting before. “To Emil Nekola. You remember him, from Almaty?” She passed her hand under her eyes until Yuri took the handkerchief from his pocket and passed it over to her silently. “It isn’t a surprise to me, I was expecting it. They have been promised to each other since they were children, their families had it arranged when they were young. Sara and I both knew it was coming but I…don’t quite think I was ready for it to be so sudden.”

Yuri didn’t know what to say. There was nothing that could be said that would make it better, nothing that could be said that would undo the marriage now that it had been performed. “I’m sorry,” was all he could muster, reaching across the table and giving her hand a small squeeze. He had never been good at comforting people, it had always been more Victor’s skill. But matters such as this evidently escaped Victor’s understanding entirely, in his privileged position of husband to a man he actually loved.

Shaking her head a little, Mila looked up to him with a faint smile. “It’s alright,” she said quietly. “I know he will treat her well, he is a good man and they have known each other for far longer than I have known her. If nothing else, she has married a friend, and that is something I can be grateful for. I knew she was never mine to begin with.” She cleared her throat softly and dabbed once more beneath her eyes with the handkerchief, then lifted her chin and straightened her back. “What are you doing?” she asked, giving the smallest shake of her head as if to clear her mind.

“Oh, it’s not important…” Yuri said, tucking the paper out of sight. “Not now, after this.”

“Please.” Mila shifted her chair further towards the desk. “I’d like a distraction. Show me?” She reached for the paper, drawing it closer to her and looking down at it with a frown. There was nothing written on it yet, Yuri hadn’t even touched ink to the page to write the date. “How inspiring,” she commented, a weak laugh escaping her.

Yuri huffed and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Mother has asked me to write to Jean-Jacques,” he admitted. “And I haven’t a clue what to say to him. I’m sure I’m meant to steer clear of discussion about the war, but I have nothing else. I know nothing about him.” He bit his lip and watched Mila carefully, tilting his head to the side. “I’m sorry. This must seem very trivial compared to what you’ve just been through.”

Mila shook her head. “Not at all. The fact remains that you are being married to someone you do not love. Yes, I have lost Sara but I have my freedom still.” She nudged the paper toward Yuri and propped her elbows on the table. “Why don’t you start by asking him about himself, then? He might prove to be more interesting than you give him credit for – or at the very least, you will be less in the dark about him. Or enquire about the French court, I hear they love nothing more than to talk at length about their beloved palace at Versailles.” She gave him a little grin.

After hesitating for a moment, Yuri nodded and leaned forward to pick up his quill. It took him another minute or so to find a decent way to begin the letter, but once he had it, he started to write fluidly enough.

 

_Jean-Jacques,_

_I apologise for not writing to you sooner; as I’m sure you have heard, His Highness Prince Victor has returned to court and it feels as though I have not had a spare moment since. However, with the time before our marriage becoming shorter and shorter I thought it polite to extend this letter in the hope we may talk more and learn about each other before the time comes for us to be wed. I am ashamed to say I know little about you and the French customs, and I would be embarrassed to be ill prepared upon my arrival at Versailles._

_Regards,_

_Yuri Plisetsky_

 

When he was finished, he set the quill back in the inkpot and turned the letter around so that Mila could read it. “What do you think?” he asked. “I’m not really inclined to be too close with him just yet, I would rather keep things informal for as long as I can. But mother would skin me alive if she received word from France that I was being rude, so please tell me if anything in there comes across as impudent.” Yuri leaned back in his chair to give Mila time to read it over, reaching up to play with the delicate gold chain around his neck. He wore the necklace constantly, under his clothes so there was no chance of his parents seeing it, but it was a comforting cool weight against his skin to remind him of Otabek’s devotion to him.

“I think it’s just fine,” Mila said eventually, nodding and leaning back from the desk. “Vague enough that you don’t seem to be prying, a decent excuse as to why you haven’t yet written, and an open invitation for him to write you back. I’d say you’ve done rather well.” She smiled and gestured to the envelopes in a box atop the desk. “Would you like me to take it to the post for you? I’m sure you’ll have another letter to send to Otabek, won’t you? Since the last one he sent had you blushing so dark.”

Yuri’s cheeks coloured then too, and he muttered something under his breath about privacy and sanctity as he snatched up a sheet of blotting paper to pass over the letter. Once the ink was dry he folded it up and slid it into an envelope, addressing it accordingly and waiting for the wax to melt for him to press a seal against it. “Maybe waft it in front of mother’s face somehow so she knows I genuinely have written it,” Yuri muttered, standing up and handing Mila the letter once the wax was set and cooled. “I wouldn’t want her doubting me.”

Mila nodded and stood as well, catching Yuri’s wrist before he could walk away. She leaned in and pressed a light kiss to his cheek, and for once he didn’t grimace or squirm away. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For understanding.”

 

* * *

 

 

While Yuri didn’t cease writing to Otabek, he did have to spend time finding all kinds of new things to talk about with Jean-Jacques. Strangely, however, this proved to be rather easy, as a pattern started to emerge where Jean-Jacques seemed to compulsively share details about his life without much prompting on Yuri’s part. One solid constant, Yuri began to notice, was the mention of a young woman named Isabella, who was first introduced in one of his letters as a servant in the palace of Versailles.

 

_Yuri,_

_Thank you for writing to me, I have been eagerly expecting a letter from you since I heard of your brother’s return to court. On behalf of everyone here in Versailles I would like to express my joy at his safe arrival and union to Yuuri Katsuki of Japan. I understand your concerns about being unprepared for life here – our customs and ways are, after all, extravagant and luxurious in the extreme. However I have every confidence that you will enjoy yourself here; there is never a dull moment and I am certain you will find pleasures beyond your wildest dreams as soon as you step through the gates. Even our servants are the envy of every court – my chambermaid Isabella, for example, has such grace and talent she could be a noble herself. I do hope you will write again so I can tell you more about our fine country._

_Yours,_

_Jean-Jacques_

 

That had been the first in a series of similar letters where Isabella made a prominent appearance. Yuri was no idiot, and it became blindingly clear that Jean-Jacques had feelings for this woman that read like a scene from Romeo and Juliet, for all the poetic language he spun about her. There were two lasting impressions left on Yuri from reading his letters, and those were that Jean-Jacques had an astoundingly sizeable ego about both himself and his country, and that the only thing to rival his ego was his adoration for Isabella. It wasn’t lost on Yuri that this meant Jean-Jacques was in the same position as him, in love with somebody he couldn’t have and forced into this marriage against his will. It seemed that for him, the person he was being told to marry wasn’t even of his preferred gender, and Yuri couldn’t deny that it inspired sympathy from him that he hadn’t felt towards Jean-Jacques before. After all, a man who was willing to be so obvious and blatant about his feelings for a servant when corresponding with his fiancé had to be so in love that he was blind to the risks involved in doing so.

 

_Yuri,_

_I am pleased you enjoyed my recommendations for novels and poems – I consider them must-reads for anyone destined for the French court. You will find that culture and style is at the heart of life here in Versailles, for you to indulge in as you like. I understand you have already sampled French fashions on the occasion I was regrettably unable to visit St Petersburg last year, but there are many more garments that can be made for you upon your arrival. Isabella – I believe I have mentioned her once or twice before – is a remarkable seamstress and can create pieces that could rival those of the biggest Paris fashion houses in their beauty and quality. I hope you will find them agreeable once you move here._

_Yours,_

_Jean-Jacques_

 

And so the letters continued in that vain, back and forth while Yuri poured his true thoughts and feelings into those he sent to Otabek. Although Yuri remained entirely civil and polite and amicable in his correspondence with his fiancé, the conversations they had were largely uninspiring and the most interesting thing about them was the relationship between Jean-Jacques and Isabella that Yuri was able to glimpse in to through his words. It was only in his letters to Otabek that he could really say what he honestly felt. No holds were barred between them – they spent time discussing what they would do to one another if they were together, and reassuring each other of their love and loyalty despite the distance between them. They weren’t all explicit, and sometimes Otabek would tell him about Aida and a new story he was writing for her, but for the most part a great deal of time was spent thinking up intimate situations over the course of their letters.

It was the only thing that kept Yuri going, knowing that he was never far away from reading another letter of Otabek’s, seeing another sketch and running his fingers over the paper that Otabek had touched. It allowed him to put thoughts of marriage and France from his mind and to focus only on him, as though the future were so far away it was of no concern to them. Mila continued to take his letters to post whenever he asked her to, faithful in that duty even now that she had no letters of her own to send. She told him that Sara had returned to Italy from Kazakhstan and now lived there in Rome with Emil, and that they were waiting for things to settle before they attempted to write again. He sympathised with her, but she never made him feel guilty about being able to write to Otabek, she continued to encourage it while they still could.

But of course, like all good and happy things in Yuri’s life, his connection to Otabek was destined to be taken away from him.

It happened with no warning at all. Yuri had finished writing a new letter to Otabek that morning, one of the tamer amongst those he had sent in recent weeks where he told him about a new book he was reading and described his conflicted feelings about the arrival of the winter season now that Victor had returned. As always, Yuri had sealed the letter and addressed it to ‘My Beloved’, a title he had deemed safe as it could easily be interpreted as being sent to Jean-Jacques. He had handed it to Mila in the early hours of the morning and watched her carry it away down the corridor to be taken to post, all as normal.

Usually he would sit in his window seat and watch Mila carry it across the courtyard and out to the front gate. That day he hadn’t, because Kira had found a mouse and brought it to his attention with a yowl at his heels.

And so later that evening, when Yuri returned from a day spent walking in the grounds before the weather got too cold to bear, no part of him had been expecting to walk into his rooms to find Yakov standing by the fireplace, thick wads of paper clutched in his hands. “Papa?” he asked, closing the door quietly behind him and moving to take off his scarf and hang it in the armoire. “Is everything alright?”

For a moment, Yakov said nothing. He stayed very still and stared down at the papers he held, before extending them towards Yuri without looking in his son’s direction. “I would ask you to explain these,” he muttered. “But I think they do well enough explaining themselves.”

Yuri knew just by looking at them what those papers were. His blood ran cold and his face drained of colour, and he found himself rooted to the floor where he stood. In the silence that enveloped the room, you could hear a pin drop. Even from the distance at which Yuri was standing he could read a few lines from one of the letters, incriminating and bold in red ink, “ _I would lay you down, kiss you breathless and run my lips over your soft, heated skin…_ ” And there, on the very top of the pile, was the sketch of Yuri laying naked in bed. Yuri’s throat felt thick with bile as though he were choking, and he just about managed to stammer, “Father, I…” before he was cut off.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you,” Yakov said tightly, a muscle in his jaw twitching with the effort he was putting in to keeping his expression neutral. “How much of an embarrassment these letters would be to our family if they were ever found? How…humiliated we would be, how shameful to the French court that this is the behaviour of the boy they have betrothed to their son?” He shook his head, taking the sketch from the top of the pile and averting his eyes to the ceiling as he dropped it into the fire. Yuri flinched and felt his heart contract painfully in his chest, even as the rest of him remained frozen in fear. “I was becoming concerned that you had yet to receive an invitation to visit Versailles,” Yakov continued, taking the next letter and dropping it into the flames after the sketch. “I worried you were being disagreeable in your letters to the Dauphin, so I stopped Mila on her way to the post and requested to see your latest message to him. You can imagine my…disgust, then, when I learned that the letter addressed to your ‘beloved’ was, in fact, intended for the Altins’ boy.” It was another way of disrespecting Otabek, to neglect to use his proper title, and it set Yuri’s teeth on edge in spite of everything. “And it became clear that it was not the only one, by any means. It hardly took me long to find your little…collection in your desk.” He dropped the rest of the letters unceremoniously into the fire, which surged in response to being fed and sent a waft of grey smoke up the chimney.

Yuri had started to cry by then, tears rolling down his face as he staggered closer to the fire and looked down at all of Otabek’s letters, all his carefully crafted words and expressions of love being eaten away by the flames and turned into ash. He couldn’t find it in him to apologise even though he knew that was what Yakov wanted to hear from him, because he couldn’t pretend that what he and Otabek had done was wrong. He didn’t care that this confirmed they’d had sex, he didn’t care that Yakov had no doubt told Lilia and that they were both ashamed of him. He didn’t care about anything any more.

“Yuri.” Yakov’s voice was eerily calm, and he waited until Yuri turned his face towards him before speaking again. “There will be no more of this. You will cease all correspondence with that boy and you will not hear from him again, do you understand me? Your letters will be checked and approved by myself and your mother before they leave the walls of the palace, as will Mila’s, as will Georgi’s. And if you cannot behave yourself still then all conversation with Jean-Jacques will be conducted on your behalf, since you cannot be trusted not to cause further insult to France. Consider this a disaster that has been narrowly averted, one we will not have a repeat of. And let me be very clear, if word of what you and Otabek Altin did together ever reaches the ears of anybody else, I will have him imprisoned for taking advantage of you.”

Yuri sniffed and stood up, rubbing his eyes angrily. “Why can’t I be with him?” he demanded. “You know as well as I do that Jean-Jacques feels nothing for me and I feel nothing for him, why must you persist with this marriage when neither of us want to go through with it? I could be _happy_ with Otabek, he’s willing to marry me…”

“We already have good relations with Kazakhstan,” Yakov interrupted, holding a hand up to stop him. “Relations that have been nothing but soured by this affair of yours. An alliance with France is far more valuable to us and for that reason you will marry Jean-Jacques without complaint.”

“But Victor married into Japan, their alliance means _nothing_ to us and yet you haven’t protested it…”

Yakov sighed and folded his arms over his chest. “We could allow this for Victor because we still had the promise of this marriage for you. Now you need to accept that responsibility and be mature about your duties to this family.”

Yuri’s blood had gone from ice cold to red hot. He felt it bubbling under his skin, anger surging through him like the fire that burned in the hearth. Without saying another word to Yakov he stormed past him and shoved the bedroom door out of his way so hard that it cracked against the wall of the corridor, the noise rattling around as an echo in the empty hall. Yuri didn’t know where he was going, perhaps to see Mila, perhaps to go and hide out in the gardens, he just knew he had to get away from Yakov before he started to scream things at him that would send him falling further from his father’s good graces.

He was down the stairs and almost at the entrance hall when he suddenly crashed into someone walking in the opposite direction, his forehead colliding directly with their shoulder. Yuri cursed under his breath and drew back, pressing a hand to the side of his head and scrubbing the remaining tears from his face with his other sleeve.

“Yuri?”

As if the world hadn’t already proved its disdain for Yuri Plisetsky in the past ten minutes, it was Victor’s voice that now greeted him, full of concern that did nothing but anger Yuri further. He looked up to see Victor standing in front of him with one arm outstretched towards him, a small dent in his jacket where Yuri had walked into him and his eyebrows knitted together in worry.

“Yuri, what…what happened? You’ve been crying…” He was moving closer, clearly making as though to touch Yuri’s elbow, but Yuri wrenched it away from him before he could.

“Now you’re interested?” he snapped, sniffing and scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Now you want to know how I’m feeling? _Now_ , of all the times you could have asked?” Yuri let out a bitter, humourless laugh and made to stride past Victor, only for Victor to catch him by his shoulders and move him back in front of him. “Don’t _touch_ me!” Yuri shrieked, tugging himself free of Victor’s hold and glaring at him with the most intense hatred he’d ever felt. “This is your fault, _all of this is your fault!_ ” His voice was so loud in the empty hall, reverberating around the walls to be thrown back at them from every angle.

Victor, to his credit, had the good sense to look remorseful, although Yuri suspected that had more to do with his displeasure at being shouted at than to do with Yuri’s emotional distress. “Yuri I don’t understand…”

“Of course you don’t!” Yuri said, looking at Victor with wild eyes like a rabid animal. “Of course you don’t understand, because you never think! How could you possibly understand how much damage you caused by running away and _abandoning_ us when you never even stopped to consider how it might affect _everyone_ you claimed to care about?” More tears were leaking from his eyes, splashing onto the floor as he gestured manically in Victor’s direction. “Look at you! You have everything you want, you have your throne and your title and your money and your fat ugly husband and I…”

“ _YURI._ ”

“You knew him, didn’t you?” Yuri sniffed and rubbed a hand under his nose. “You were lying when you pretended not to know who he was, before your birthday party. When Mila told you he was coming, you _lied_.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and still. Yuri’s chest was heaving from his outburst and Victor couldn’t look him in the eye, instead choosing to stare wilfully at the marble floor. “Yes,” he said eventually, his voice very quiet. He hung his head and his shoulders sagged, and he gave Yuri a small, defeated nod.

“You’d met him before. You knew each other.”

Again, Victor nodded and said, “Yes.” He sighed and finally looked at Yuri properly, his face filled with so much anguish that it was impossible to tell if it was genuine or very finely acted. “We met when I was twenty-two. I had accompanied mother and father on a diplomatic visit to the Netherlands. It is the only country permitted to trade with Japan, and Yuuri had been brought there to perform for delegates from the Dutch East India Company. We met at a state dinner and began exchanging letters once we returned home. We…we fell in love, Yuri, there is nothing that can be done to help that. Once it happens it can’t be ignored.” He was fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt, elegant fingers plucking at the ruffled fabric. “I swear I did not know he would perform at my birthday, I found out the same time you did, when Mila told us at the lake. It was a coincidence that mother and father invited him, but once I knew…we continued to write, and we made plans to elope. I had to, I had to be with him. I love him, Yuri, and he loves me too, as more than just the Prince of Russia.”

Yuri shook his head, a small laugh bubbling from him that was dry and dead and empty. “Well that is wonderful for you,” he muttered. “That is marvellous for you, Victor, that you have the _luxury_ of being so selfish. Because I suppose whatever happened, whatever you did to disgrace this family and defy our parents’ wishes you could be safe in the knowledge you would be welcomed back with open arms, couldn’t you? Because it has always been that way. And you didn’t need to give a second thought about what might happen to me once you were gone, about the responsibilities you were leaving me with, about the marriage that I’m being forced in to in a matter of mere _months_. No, you could afford to be as selfish and heartless as it suited you to be.”

Victor’s lower lip was trembling and he once again reached out to try and hold Yuri. “I never meant for this to happen, I’m sorry…I’m sorry Yuri, I am. Please, you have to believe me…”

“No. I don’t have a choice in many things that happen to me now, thanks to you, but it’s my choice whether or not I forgive you. And I don’t see any way that I can.” Yuri set his jaw and shoved past Victor, continuing on his way to the doors to the courtyard. He could hear Victor crying out his name behind him, or perhaps he was crying for his husband, but Yuri forced his legs to work faster until he was running at full speed into the freezing cold grounds outside, not looking back for a second. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIMELINE OF EVENTS:
> 
> 1731: Kazakhstan signs an agreement with Russia that establishes Russian control over them.  
> 1735: Victor Nikiforov is born.  
> 1742: Victor is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged seven.  
> 1747: Yuri Plisetsky is born.  
> 1752: Yuri is adopted by Lilia and Yakov, aged five. Victor is seventeen at the time.  
> 1754: The Seven Years War begins, fought between many nations across five different continents. Both Otabek and JJ fight in this war.  
> 1761: The story begins at the very end of this year, in December, three days before Victor's twenty-seventh birthday. Yuri is fourteen.  
> 1763: The Seven Years War ends. Yuri is sixteen at the time, Victor is twenty-eight, Otabek and JJ are eighteen and nineteen respectively. (Note: the dates of the Seven Years War, 1754-1763, do not add up to seven years. Various countries ceased fighting at different times, the dates shown here are relevant to Russia specifically).


	16. Exile

Yuri was no stranger to the idea of exile. It was a common practice amongst nobles and royals alike - if one of the younger and more scandalous members of your household was misbehaving, you simply sent them somewhere far enough away that they would be out of your hair and, most importantly, away from the judgemental eyes of your gossiping social circle. However, usually when a troublesome young noble was exiled, it would be to a remote manor in Siberia or a sizeable estate in the depths of the English countryside where you could pretend they were visiting simply to experience the culture. The entire point was to keep a low profile until you learned your proper manners, and that was why, to the best of Yuri’s knowledge, nobody had ever been exiled to the palace of Versailles. And yet that was where Yuri found himself, on a boat and suffering from gut-churning seasickness as he travelled across the Baltic bound for the port of Le Havre.

An invitation hadn’t so much been extended as Yakov had forced it, writing again and again to the French court with near-embarrassing compliments and praise in the hopes they would relent and allow Yuri to stay. Eventually a letter had arrived personally from the King inviting Yuri to reside in the palace of Versailles indefinitely, commencing as soon as the travel arrangements could be made. And Yakov, in his desperation to have Yuri as far away from the east and as far away from Kazakhstan as possible, had miraculously summoned a ship set to sail the very day after the letter had been received. Only, in a cruel twist of fate almost more brutal than anything Yuri had suffered in recent months, it was decided that it would be improper for him to go alone.

And that was why Yuri was currently sharing a confined cabin on a ship with his estranged older brother and the husband whom Yuri firmly believed to be the root cause of their entire situation. When Yakov had first announced that Victor would be accompanying Yuri to France, Yuri had been so desensitised to receiving awful news that he’d simply nodded and complied without an argument. It wasn’t until the three of them actually boarded the ship that Yuri realised what a terrible idea it was, a realisation that he could almost pinpoint to the exact moment the cabin door was shut behind them and they were left completely alone.

At first the silence had been deafening. Yuri stood by the door as if he were contemplating making a run for it, while Victor hovered by the window and Yuuri Katsuki seemed to press himself as far back into the corner as humanly possible. Nobody spoke and nobody moved for a good few minutes, until the ship started to sail and sitting became a necessity lest they fall over with the rocking of the waves. And so Yuri had claimed the bedroom closest to the door and left the remaining one to the couple, pushing his steamer trunk in front of the door once he was inside to prevent either of them from letting themselves in.

Yuri had remained in his room for the entire first day of their journey, loathed to come out for anything. The ship had sailed early in the morning so he had the excuse that he was tired to keep him in bed, and to his credit he spent a great deal of his time asleep for those first twelve hours. The bed was small but not entirely uncomfortable, the only initial discomfort being the smell of the salt air that kept drifting in through the porthole window. It was only once he woke up in the evening that everything took a turn for the worse.

Seasickness crept up on Yuri like the plague. It began when he and his two reluctant companions were sat around a table together eating dinner in silence. His stomach had been unsettled ever since he’d awoken, and all throughout their meal he’d been taking tiny bites of food and chewing them for minutes at a time before forcing himself to swallow. All it took was one particularly violent lurch of the ship before Yuri was up out of his seat and sprinting outside to retch violently over the portside into the sea. All of Yuri’s dinner was brought back up, and ever since then the slightest tilt of the ship or dip in the waves had him running for a bucket or window.

The journey was longer than any Yuri had ever had to make before. Victor had always been the one to accompany Yakov and Lilia on diplomatic visits – of course he was, that was how he’d picked up his ridiculous excuse for a husband. Yuri had travelled, but far less than his brother, and as such the sheer amount of time it took to get to France was beginning to drive him insane.

He couldn’t even comprehend how long they’d been at sea by the time the port of Le Havre finally came into their line of sight on the horizon. They’d docked twice before, once in Norway for a single night to re-stock the ship with food and supplies and then once again in London for two nights, also to re-stock and to send word ahead to Versailles that they would soon be arriving. It wasn’t long after they left England that France became visible to them, the two countries being as close together as they were. And Yuri, stood out on deck and emptying the contents of his stomach into the ocean, was one of the first to see it.

Yuri was too delirious to think much of the approaching landmass, but Victor soon stepped up beside him to watch as they drew nearer. “I’m told the carriage ride from Le Havre to Versailles is fairly short,” he said by way of greeting, placing a hand on Yuri’s back to rub between his shoulder blades that Yuri immediately shook off. “We should be able to complete it in less than a day.” He returned his hand to the ship’s railing, and that was the only thing that alerted Yuri to the absence of the other irritating presence currently invading his life.

“Where’s the pig?” he muttered, spitting to clear his mouth before wiping his lips on his sleeve. He felt disgusting; if there was one positive thing about their arrival in France it was the fact he would be able to have a decent hot bath. He had no doubt the French would be decadent to the extent of providing him with oils and flower petals and all manner of things to take away the awful sea smell that had been clinging to him for as long as they’d been travelling.

Victor sighed. His initial reaction to Yuri’s nickname for his husband had been anger and offence, but over the course of their journey that had withered down into sighs and heavy looks. “He is writing a letter to his family in the cabin,” he explained patiently, not looking down at Yuri but instead keeping his eyes on the horizon to see France draw closer. “To let them know he will be here for the foreseeable future and not in St Petersburg.” His voice was tight and clipped, and Yuri scowled up at him.

“You make it sound as though I’m forcing you to be here,” he muttered, pushing away from the railing. “Make no mistake, I have no desire for you to follow me around at all. Had I been given a choice, I would have made you stay home.” Since Yuuri was evidently occupying their cabin, Yuri had nowhere to go but the deck, so he found a trunk to sit himself down upon and waited as patiently as he could for them to reach the port and drop anchor.

Victor seemed to have other plans than letting him sit in silence. He turned and leaned against the side of the ship, neatly avoiding the line of spittle Yuri had left on the wood. His newly-shorn hair fluttered in the breeze, whipping about his face and the nape of his neck. “Are we ever going to have a proper conversation about all this?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest. Somehow, despite the amount of time they had spent at sea, Victor had managed to retain his milky colouring without tanning or burning. It was something that made Yuri, reddened and sore due to his hours spent throwing up on deck, incredibly envious. Yuri looked and felt like a boiled lobster while the sun simply glinted off the smooth, high planes of Victor’s face like glass.

“What would you like to talk about?” Yuri mumbled, placing a hand on his stomach and rubbing to try and soothe it. The sooner his feet touched dry land the better – perhaps Yakov would get his wish of Yuri remaining in France just on the principle that he didn’t want to get back on a ship. “How you lied about not knowing Katsuki when he came to perform for you? I saw you, you know. The night of your birthday; I went upstairs to change for dinner and I saw you kissing him in the corridor. If I’d known you were planning on leaving perhaps I would have come forward and said something. More fool me, hm?” He groaned and got up again, staggering to the edge of the ship to once again dry-heave into the sea. Victor tried patting his back and Yuri weakly shoved him away.

“Jean-Jacques may surprise you. I’ve met him before, when he was younger. I found him to be a very confident, respectable young man…”

“Oh, shut up about Jean-Jacques,” Yuri muttered, spitting once and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Did you not stop to consider I might find somebody who I love and who returns that love to me in a way more profound than the marriage that has been _arranged_ for me? You are selfish, Victor, you have always been selfish and I have never said anything because I have never known any different but now I see it so clearly, you are a selfish man.” It was a surprisingly eloquent little speech considering the fact that Yuri’s stomach and head were currently spinning, and it stunned Victor into silence for long enough that the Captain called out their imminent approach to Le Havre.

The entire process took much longer than he would have liked. There was a great deal of waiting for other ships to clear the way so they could dock, and then there was the fanfare of guards arriving and lining the gangplank to ensure the safety of the royals as they departed the ship. Eventually Yuri was permitted to walk onto mercifully dry land, following after Victor and Yuuri in a single-file line towards their carriage. A delegate from the Palace of Versailles stood in front of the open door to greet them, although after taking one look at Yuri’s dishevelled appearance the carefully held smile on his face wavered a little.

“A pleasure to welcome you to France, your highnesses,” the man said, his accent thick as he bowed low in respect. He was wearing a hat with a ridiculous feather plumage, and despite how queasy Yuri still felt he had to resist the urge to reach up and grab it just because of how obnoxious it was. “The road is clear for your journey to Versailles and we will avoid the route through Paris to keep the crowds at bay; the Dauphin has provided one of his fines carriages for you to be comfortable on your way.”

Had he been expecting a response from Yuri, the man was to be disappointed. Victor looked back and forth between them for a moment before clearing his throat quietly and thanking him for the prince’s hospitality, stepping up into the carriage and reaching a hand down to help Yuuri up after him. Yuri climbed in himself, using the handle on the side to hoist his body up unceremoniously onto the plush velvet seat. Even the inside of the carriage gave a taste of what was to come, with so much detail and frill it made Yuri’s head ache slightly. He could have sworn the fabrics were even lightly perfumed – probably no bad thing considering the fact Yuri smelt of sea salt and vomit.

Yuri didn’t say a single word to Victor or Yuuri as they travelled across France. The couple discussed things between them in hushed voices, though nothing they were saying seemed to be very interesting. Yuri caught vague words like ‘garden’ and ‘meal’ and ‘Paris’, but nothing much else that would be enough to warrant him eavesdropping. Besides, there was plenty to look at out of the window. They passed large fields that were being farmed for food, but also gardens that were covered in flowers and neatly trimmed lawns. Cottages were in abundance, quaint and small. It was different to Russia, different to Kazakhstan, and Yuri found that it didn’t compare well. He would still prefer to be in the summer house just outside Almaty with Otabek, exploring the lake and picking their own berries from the kitchen garden. No amount of pomp or luxury could make him want that less.

When they eventually arrived at the Palace of Versailles, Yuri would be lying to himself if he said his breath wasn’t taken away by what he saw. It was massive, bigger than what he could possibly have imagined it to look like. There was a crystal-clear lake at the front and statues all around, lawns cut and trimmed into interesting swirling designs and fountains cascading down either side of the main steps like guards made of gold. And, if all that was to be looked past, the reception that awaited them in front of the palace doors was nothing short of a crowd. Ladies in pastel-toned gowns covered in frills and roses and ruffles stood with their skirts blowing in the light breeze, while men in powdered wigs and elevated heels followed the Russian carriage with their eyes until it came to a stop at the foot of the steps.

Suddenly, Yuri was very aware of how dirty he looked. His hair, normally so golden and beautiful and soft, now felt stringy and weighed down with grease and sea salt. His skin felt sallow, but red and irritated from the biting ocean air. And his clothes – his clothes were smeared with vomit in a way he very much hoped wasn’t obvious from a first glance, but logically he knew they would be under such scrutiny it wouldn’t go amiss. Victor was the first to step down from the carriage when the door was opened for them, once again extending his hand to help his husband climb down beside him. The pair began to walk arm in arm up the tall steps, and Yuri reluctantly followed suit with his head ducked low.

Like wind coursing through the leaves of the trees, Yuri could hear the crowd start to murmur and whisper as they came into view at the top of the steps. What had they been expecting, Yuri wondered, from the Russian royal family? Had they expected fair hair and pale skin and long, thin limbs? If so, Victor was the sight to behold at that moment, not Yuri. And if it were the case that they expected that, then what did they think of Yuuri Katsuki, with his inky black hair and brown almond-shaped eyes and lightly tanned skin? His question was answered when he caught one of the ladies tilting their heads and whispering to a friend, “ _Has he brought a servant?_ ” For a reason Yuri couldn’t explain, that irked him, and he shot the two women a glare that must have looked quite repulsive considering his currently dishevelled state.

A single figure stepped out from the crowd and strode towards them, and Yuri knew from the paintings he’d already been shown that this was Jean-Jacques. He was not an ugly man by any means, with strong dark eyebrows and a very square jaw and a mouth that looked as though it were already turned up in a smirk. But he was not handsome either, as far as Yuri was concerned – he did not compare to Otabek.

Jean-Jacques paused in front of Victor and bowed his head respectfully, extending his hand to him. Victor accepted it graciously and bowed his head in turn, and the pair of them shared a few quiet words that Yuri, hanging much further back in an attempt to avoid inspection from the crowd, could not hear. Yuuri also received a similar greeting, except Jean-Jacques took his hand and raised it to his mouth to press a kiss to the backs of his knuckles. Perhaps Yuri was imagining it or just found it funny to think about, but he thought he saw Victor tense until Yuuri’s hand was returned to his side.

And then it was Yuri’s turn for a greeting, and all sense of amusement escaped him. Jean-Jacques approached him slowly, the way one might approach an angry dog they were afraid might bite, and the smirk on his face softened into a more genuine smile. “Your highness,” he said, closing the last bit of distance between them and pressing a kiss to each of Yuri’s cheeks. Of course, that was French custom, something he would have to get used to however much he loathed the idea of a stranger getting so close to him. “I am so pleased to have you here. I trust your journey was pleasant?”

Yuri should have said yes, that was the expected answer. That was the answer Victor was clearly willing him with his eyes to give. But Yuri was so disorientated by the travelling and the crowd of people and the whispers he could still hear that he instead came out with, “Not at all, I got quite sick,” and then immediately seemed to realise what he’d done and tried to backtrack, “But I feel much better now I am on dry land again…”

“Of course. How silly of me, you have been at sea a long time. I should have perhaps suggested you rest in Le Havre for a night before making the journey to Versailles, but as you can see, there are many people here who are eager to meet you.” Jean-Jacques placed a hand on the small of Yuri’s back to indicate they should move inside, and that small gesture seemed to get the entire party moving too, a wave of pastel pinks and blues and yellows all going en masse to the entrance hall of the palace. “Still. I think we have asked for about as much of your time as we reasonably can for today. It is getting late, after all, and I am sure you would like to rest and…refresh yourself.” Whether that was simple politeness or a heavy hint that Yuri smelled was unclear. “The servants have drawn baths for you all, they are waiting for you in your chambers.” He stepped back and bowed low again, adding, “On behalf of everyone here in the court of Versailles, I would like to welcome to France, and I hope you will be happy here.”

And with that, the crowd dispersed. Lots of bowing and curtseying proceeded, before they were left alone to go their separate ways to their assigned chambers. For the sake of being proper, Jean-Jacques escorted Victor and Yuuri to their rooms lest he be left alone with Yuri unaccompanied, while a servant in a ridiculously stylish uniform led Yuri to his own. They had to climb several flights of stairs to reach it, and with every single floor Yuri could have sworn the décor became more elaborate and ornate. At least he knew he wouldn’t be bored for the first few days of his stay, as he’d have plenty to explore while he was hiding from the prying eyes of the courtiers.

“Your highness.” The servant paused outside a set of wooden double doors inlaid with gold carvings and bowed low, opening one to allow Yuri through. He wandered into the dimly lit drawing room and heard the door close behind him, and for a moment he took in his surroundings. A fire was lit in the hearth and two armchairs were situated in front of it, much like the drawing rooms at the palace in St Petersburg except the armchairs here were much smaller, with circular backs and gold claw-foot legs very low to the ground. Yuri supposed it would suit someone like him, being small himself, but he couldn’t imagine someone as gangly as Victor sitting comfortably in one of them. There was also a writing desk with papers and ink and wax, and Yuri made note of that so he could write to Mila later. He wondered if perhaps there would be a way of getting letters to Otabek, though he would need to be so careful in a palace with so many eyes.

He used the light from the fireplace to guide himself through to the bedroom, where a large four-poster bed stood draped in canary-yellow curtains attached to gold tassel drawstrings. There was another hearth in this room, made from white marble run through with flecks of peaches and pinks. Yuri wondered how expensive it must have been to be so particular about the colour of the marble. In front of the fire was a large copper tub obscured from the rest of the room by a painted rice paper dressing screen, upon which there were designs of herons and cherry blossoms from top to bottom. It was all very…pretty, something Yuri didn’t completely object to but still couldn’t help comparing to the simple beauty of the Altins’ summer house.

Yuri peeled off his clothes, dropping them in a pile on the floor to be dealt with later. Stepping carefully into the steaming water he sank down with a groan, practically feeling all the tension seep from his muscles and the grime lift from his skin. As expected the water was fragranced with a number of oils, some lavender and some rose and something else that was much sweeter and headier. All of it helped take away the dreadful sea smell and return him to a calmer and cleaner state, and before long he dunked his head completely under the water so his hair would reap the benefits too. He was so relaxed that he swore he could have fallen asleep there in front of the fire with the water lapping around his body and the oils thickening the air with their sweet smells, but the longer he stayed the colder the water got, until eventually he was forced to climb out and slide on the silk nightshirt that was laid out for him. It wasn’t his own, so he could only assume that his measurements had been sent ahead for one to be provided for him. It looked brand new and felt soft against his skin, and he carefully reached to scoop his hair over his shoulder so it wouldn’t dampen the back of it.

This turned out to be a mistake, as he felt his fingers run through the upper part of his hair and immediately get stuck in a mess of knots and tangles. He should have expected as much – the wind had whipped it about so violently during their journey and the water had now matted it together further – though he was at a loss as to how to deal with it. He took himself out from behind the dressing screen and sat at the dresser, in front of the large gilded mirror facing the bed. An array of things had been provided for him, a silver hairbrush with coarse bristles and a wide-tooth comb with a pearl handle, as well as various oils and powders in crystal decanters.

Yuri picked up the brush and brought it to the ends of his hair, dragging it through and shuddering at the awful ripping noise it made. He kept going, holding his hair in his fist to stop it pulling at the roots and hurting him. But the further up his hair he got the more it started to pull, until Yuri’s eyes were stinging in pain and his scalp throbbed dully. Back home he would have had a servant to carefully comb through the mess for him, or he simply wouldn’t have let it get so bad in the first place, but here he was on his own. He tried once more to yank the brush through the worst of the knots, only to cry out in pain and rest his forehead against the dresser in resignation.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat like that, he was only aware of a knock eventually sounding at the door to his chambers. Yuri lifted his head and sighed, rubbing at his eyes and calling for whoever was there to enter. He expected it was a servant come to turn down the bed or remove the used bath water somehow, so he was rather surprised to see Yuuri Katsuki walking towards him still dressed in his clothes from the ship. His hair had obviously been combed and his hands washed judging by the slight pink colour of them and the lack of dirt under his nails, but aside from that there was no evidence that he had bathed since Yuri last saw him.

“What do you want?” Yuri muttered, turning in his chair to look at him. “My bath water is cold already, you can’t use it.”

Yuuri paused and looked down at himself as though only just realising his current state of dress. “Oh, no. I allowed Victor to bathe before me but now he has fallen asleep and I don’t want to wake him by asking for more water to be brought up. I’ll bathe in the morning.” He came to stand behind Yuri’s chair in front of the dresser, looking at them both in the mirror’s reflection. “I thought you might need some help with your hair.”

Yuri frowned, looking at the hairbrush as if it had burned him. “I’m fine,” he said adamantly, irritated by how much like a stubborn child he sounded. “You wouldn’t know how to do it anyway.” Yuuri’s hair was an entirely different texture to his own – coarser, and shorter. “I don’t want you messing it up and hurting me.”

With a small sigh Yuuri reached forward and took the comb from the dresser, bypassing the brush completely. “You don’t look fine. You have a family of birds nesting back here, I think.” He narrowed his eyes and bit his lower lip in concentration, starting to carefully pick apart the first of Yuri’s many knots with the end of the comb. Somehow his movements were slow and Yuri didn’t feel the same tugging he had when he’d attempted to tackle it himself. “Victor’s was the same before he cut it,” Yuuri explained, his voice soft and quiet. “I told him I didn’t think he should have it short, but he insisted he wanted a change.”

Yuri scoffed, bringing one bare leg up to his chest and resting his chin on his knee. He curled his toes around the edge of the chair and absently traced patterns over the arch of his foot. “Leaving his country wasn’t enough of a change for him?” he mumbled, refusing to look in the mirror in case he met Yuuri’s eyes.

“Evidently not. Christophe and I both tried to talk him out of it – I think he was so lucky to have long hair like yours and it’s a shame he wasted it.” Yuuri finished with the first knot and took up the hairbrush to make sure it was all smoothed out before switching back to the comb to work on the next tangle. “Jean-Jacques was telling us about his plans for tomorrow while he was showing us to our rooms. It seems he’s invited dancers all the way from Thailand to entertain you and welcome you to the palace, and there will be a dinner after to introduce you to all the most important courtiers.”

“I suppose he doesn’t know about my disdain for foreign performers,” Yuri muttered, and was surprised to hear Yuuri chuckle quietly behind him. They fell into silence after that, Yuri listening to the fire crackling behind the dressing screen while Yuuri focused all his attention on getting the tangles out of his hair. Eventually he put the comb down and ran through it with the brush, the bristles slipping easily from root to tip without getting caught.

“There,” Yuuri said, setting the brush back on the dresser and stepping away to admire his work. “Much better, it should dry smooth now.”

Yuri finally allowed himself to look in the mirror, running his fingers through his hair before letting it fall down over his shoulders. “Thank you,” he muttered, sliding off his chair and going to sit on the end of the bed. The fire was beginning to die down and the candle on the bedside table was down to just a little nub sitting in a pool of wax, and Yuri’s eyes were beginning to droop. He was exhausted and he knew he’d need his strength to navigate the strange world of the French court from early the next morning, which meant he’d have to get as much sleep as he possibly could that night.

Yuuri nodded and hovered awkwardly by the dresser for a moment as though he had something more to say, however instead decided on turning on his heel to walk briskly out of the room. The door out in the drawing room closed quietly behind him and Yuri was left alone to get himself into bed. The only sound came from the low tick of the grandfather clock in the corner, which was lulling him into sleep before he’d even put his head to the pillow.

Yuri crawled up the mattress and drew the curtains closed around the bed to afford him some more privacy and shut out the amber glow from the dying fire, sliding himself under the soft quilt. It felt good just to be laying somewhere that wasn’t moving for once, after the constant rocking of the ship. The only thing keeping him from a decent sleep now was his own mind, and the constant thoughts running through it about what was waiting for him the following day. As much as he would have liked to be difficult and fussy and turn the entire court against him, he was beginning to realise quite how soon his marriage to Jean-Jacques would take place, and quite how impossible it was that he might get out of it. If he acted out now, it would only serve to make the prince cold and angry towards him, and he didn’t want to set himself up for an even worse marriage than he already faced because of his own brattish behaviour. Against his will, Yuri knew he would have to do what Yakov wanted of him – he would have to be amicable, be polite, and prepare himself to marry into the French royal family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm so so so sorry it's been such a long wait between chapters! Things have been pretty crazy, I've been working some festivals and getting sorted for going back to university and finishing up moving in to my new place - I've been busy! But here's a new chapter, finally, and a new location for us (and Yuri) to explore. The next chapter will have more about Versailles; while I've been to Paris quite a few times I've never actually been to the palace, I'm planning to go next summer but for now I'll have to make do with research so I hope everything is accurate enough when it comes to it. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! It feels a little like a filler, since nothing dramatic happens here like it has done in the last few chapters, but we'll save some drama for the upcoming chapters... :D 
> 
> Please do comment and let me know what you think! Your comments have honestly been so sweet during this little hiatus and I wanna say a huge thank you to everyone for bearing with me and being so patient! <3


	17. Land of Milk and Honey

Yuri awoke the next morning to bright, white light hitting his eyes and dragging him from his sleep. Having been certain he’d closed the curtains around the bed before he slept, there was a moment of confusion before his blurry eyes focused on the figures standing around the footboard, staring him down expectantly. At the palace in St Petersburg he was plenty used to having servants in his room in the morning, however in general they moved around quietly, leaving him to sleep while they filled a washbowl with clean water, laid out his clothes for the day and set a breakfast tray on his dresser. Here, however, it seemed his early-morning visitors weren’t even servants at all, and they certainly seemed to have no intention of letting him sleep.

The first face Yuri saw wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to him. Thinking back, he remembered seeing her the day before standing amongst the reception party that had welcomed them, only now she was dressed considerably more decadently and seemed to be holding back a throng of other similarly decorated women who were straining to get a look at him. She was tall and thin, her bone structure incredibly sharp in a way that reminded him somewhat of Lilia, and not in a good way. Her dress was a very dark teal and had gold ruffles and lace in just about every available place, but the most ridiculous part of the whole ensemble had to be her hat, which stood tall with feather plumage clustered around an ugly round brooch. And her makeup was unlike anything Yuri had ever seen, so much rouge on such a powder-pale face and with two false beauty spots painted on her cheek and chin. Did she think she looked nice? Or was she trying to scare him?

His answer came when the woman suddenly dropped into a low curtsey, extending her hand in a limp waving gesture towards him. “Your highness,” she said, in slow and heavily accented Russian. “At the morning dressing ceremony…”

Yuri pushed himself up so he was sitting, feeling uncomfortable at the prospect of having a conversation while drowning in blankets. He adjusted his nightshirt to cover more of his chest and interrupted her in French to say, “There is no need for Russian, I understand French perfectly.” He knew that speaking a language she was fluent in would speed up proceedings slightly, something he was very interested in doing so he could find his way down to breakfast sooner. The lack of food was starting to hit him now that the nausea from the ship had passed, and he was eager to have something solid in his stomach.

The woman’s cheeks flushed a little, although it was barely perceptible under the makeup. “Of course,” she replied, now in French. Beginning her sentence again, it was clear what was to follow was an explanation as to why his bedroom was full of women in pretty pastel dresses. “At the morning dressing ceremony, the rights to enter your chambers are given to members of the high court…” A sweeping gesture of her arm behind her indicated the throng of ladies as she herself moved closer to the side of the bed, “Major rights are given to princesses of the blood and mistresses of the household, while minor rights are given to the charges.” She placed her bony hand on Yuri’s arm to gently guide him out of the bed, which he did so reluctantly, his bare toes touching the cold floorboards as the nightshirt fell about his knees. Around them the women bowed into a deep curtsey, skirts pooling on the floor.

 

Assuming he wouldn’t receive a personal introduction from the woman herself, Yuri resolved to ask about her later once he’d been able to eat. For now he watched on warily as one of the young ladies from the back of the crowd wearing a canary yellow dress came forward with a silver tray held carefully on her palms, bowing her head to him respectfully as she approached. On the tray was a pair of shoes, pale pink in colour with bows on the front. They certainly weren’t his, and they were unlike anything he’d brought with him from Russia.

“Am I not allowed to wear my own clothes?” he asked, as another young lady in a pale blue dress stooped to place the shoes on his feet for him. Although they fit perfectly and he had no doubt that they had been made especially for him, he disliked them intensely, disliked the frill and pomp of them and the way the tiny heel threw off his balance and altered his stance.

The stern woman shook her head so hard Yuri could have been forgiven for assuming he’d somehow offended her. “Oh no, your highness, that is not possible,” she said, clicking her tongue. “No no no. You must give up your Russian things now, you will have many nice French things provided for you. You are leaving your old life behind, see, to prepare for your new life as the husband of the Dauphin.” No Russian clothes. None of his preferred colours and styles, none of his furs, nothing he was accustomed to. Even his nightshirt was new, and as pleasant to sleep in as it was, it wasn’t familiar.

Another young woman, this time wearing pink, came forward with a floral porcelain bowl full of water for him to wash his hands. Yuri gingerly dipped his fingers in and let them drip onto the floor until another girl bustled forward with a cloth to dry them, which he reached out to take.

“Your highness!” came the immediate reprimand. “You mustn’t reach for anything!” Already, Yuri could tell that he and this older woman were going to come to blows sooner or later. He didn’t like being told what to do and this woman seemed to have a penchant for giving out orders, making them incompatible on principle. Yuri also detested fanfare and excess, which appeared to be the order of the day in the palace of Versailles. “To hand an item to the Prince is a guarded privilege. It must go to the highest rank in the room.”

The girl holding the cloth smiled at him sheepishly, bowing her head and patting his hands dry once he relented and held them out for her. “For example,” the older woman continued, a constant and irritating squawk in Yuri’s ear, “Princess Estelle is a princess of the blood…by marriage.” The girl with the cloth blushed and handed it off to one of the other women, so that she could reach down and help Yuri out of his nightshirt. He immediately dropped his hands to cover himself and try to preserve some of his modesty, but the girl – Princess Estelle – simply smiled kindly at him and fetched a new undershirt for him to wear that would go underneath his clothes for the day.

Yuri cleared his throat awkwardly, trying his best to look anywhere except into any of the eyes of the women staring at him. “It’s cold,” he said, deciding that perhaps conversation might make the experience less uncomfortable.

Princess Estelle smiled wider at being directly addressed, nodding in agreement while she fiddled with the undershirt to get it unfolded. “Yes, it is,” she said sweetly. She finally placed the shirt over his head and he could drop his hands again, sighing softly. She stepped back to let him put his own arms in the right places and get the shirt properly adjusted, at which point the old woman in blue came forward once more.

“This is ridiculous,” he said plainly, giving a little shrug as he reached up to tie the strings at the front of the shirt.

The woman shook her head again in that same jerky way, tipping her chin up with evident pride. “No, your highness. This is Versailles.” With that she turned and made a gesture with the flick of her wrist, and the women all began to file out of the bedroom after curtseying to him one last time. Eventually every single one of them was gone and he was left in merciful silence for a grand total of two minutes before a man in a smart uniform allowed himself in with the intention of helping Yuri dress. Usually Yuri would have rejected the offer, however once he saw the outfit he was meant to wear, he reluctantly stood very still and allowed himself to be tugged, pulled and buckled into the offending garments. Dark purple in colour, he didn’t feel that they fit his personal style in any way, and he certainly didn’t like how they clashed with the awful pink shoes, but the hum of approval he earned from the valet seemed to confirm his fears that this was the accepted fashion in the palace.

Thankfully, Yuri was allowed to walk down to breakfast unaccompanied. It was a rare moment of calm, waking solitude that he had yet to properly experience since arriving in Versailles, and he took his time drifting along the corridors and examining each of the portraits as he passed them. All of the people looked the same, in his opinion, in their outrageous wigs and clothes. The portraits from years further back seemed so plain by comparison and yet so refreshing to Yuri’s eyes, the sight of a darker jacket like a cool drink of water in a frilly pastel desert. Each and every person, though, regardless of how they were dressed, had the same glint in their eye as he saw in Jean-Jacques. It looked…smug, as though they all knew one big secret that everyone else did not. It irked him in a way that nothing else normally did, got on his nerves and set him on edge.

By the time he reached the breakfast room, Yuri’s stomach was audibly growling. After the display in his bedroom that morning he was fully expecting to find another crowd of onlookers intent on seeing him dine, and he was not disappointed; upon entering the room there was a gasp and a sea of chiffon and tulle all shivered as people moved closer to catch a glimpse of him. He tried his best to ignore them, as he assumed he was supposed to, and took his seat at the table. He decided that they must consider this strange staring as normal as if they were watching a play, and if that were the case, it would be less enjoyable for them if one of the actors broke character and acknowledged them. And so he kept his attention focused on himself, only glancing up to see who was at the table to eat with him.

Surprisingly, the only two diners besides himself were Victor and Yuuri. They were both sat in complete silence, their backs ramrod straight and their eyes downcast so as to avoid the stares of the crowd around them. Yuuri was nursing a cup of tea poured into bone china so thin he could see the liquid through it, while Victor was nibbling on a piece of fruit with a frown between his eyebrows. Yuri wasted no time in grabbing a both a croissant and a pain au chocolat, waving away the servant who was hovering behind him waiting to serve him. The irritating woman from earlier was nowhere to be seen, so he decided it would be alright to ignore the proper court behaviours for now. Given how hungry he was, he could hardly be blamed for not wanting to wait for the servant to gingerly pluck the food from the table and present it to him in some needlessly lavish way.

“Is my fiancé not joining us this morning?” he asked in Russian as he ripped open the croissant and took up an ornate silver knife to spread on butter and strawberry jam. His voice rang out in the otherwise silent room, and again he heard the rustle of clothes as the crowd perked up to try and figure out what he said. “I assumed he would want to entertain his guests.” Yuri’s voice was dripping with sarcasm, and he let the knife clatter onto his plate before tearing into the croissant with his teeth. When neither Victor nor Yuuri replied to him, he added with his mouth full, “And how about your clothes, hm? You weren’t also made to give up your Russian things?”

Victor sighed and looked up from his fruit, sending him a weary expression that was trying to masquerade as a glare. “No, Yuri, we weren’t. And we shouldn’t be speaking like this, they’ll assume we have something to hide.” To try and show that an argument wasn’t brewing over the table, he reached out and took his husband’s hand in his own, running his thumb over the back of it in full view of the on looking crowd.

Yuri shrugged lightly. “I don’t hear you switching to French,” he noted, taking another bite of his croissant and licking a drop of jam off his finger. Tucking one leg underneath himself to get comfortable, he propped his elbows on the table and looked back and forth between the two of them with narrowed eyes. “So neither of you would like to talk either?” He sighed and leaned back with a huff, stuffing the last of his croissant in his mouth. He’d only been in the palace for a night and already he was bored to tears. He supposed he would try and find the library once he was done with breakfast, in the hopes that maybe there he could find some solace away from the staring eyes of the crowd.

He was just about to start on his pain au chocolat when he heard someone clear their throat quietly behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see a young woman in full maid’s uniform standing directly beside his chair with her hands tucked behind her back. She was pretty in a rather plain way, her skin pale without the need of all the powder makeup that the courtiers applied and her hair jet black under the white cap she wore. She had long eyelashes too, made all the more evident by the fact she had her eyes downcast respectfully, and rose-pink lips that were slightly parted as though she were expecting Yuri to lash out at her.

“Yes?” Yuri asked, wiping his hands on a cloth napkin and twisting around more in his chair.

The young woman cleared her throat and dropped into a quick, slightly jerky curtsey. “My name is Isabella, your highness. The Dauphin has sent me to adjust your garments for your first state dinner this evening.” Ah. So this was the famed Isabella, the chambermaid who had apparently made such an impact on Jean-Jacques that he felt the need to describe her at length in almost all of his letters. Looking at her again through that light, Yuri tried to see what exactly made her stand out. She wasn’t particularly beautiful in a way that the noble ladies of the court weren’t, she clearly had no wealth to speak of, and her manner of speaking seemed timid upon first impressions. And yet Yuri tried his best to consider the fact that, if he was correct in his assumption that she and the prince were intimate, the poor girl was currently having to confront and serve the intruder who would soon marry Jean-Jacques and take him away from her for good. Yuri tried to imagine himself as a servant in the palace in Kazakhstan, standing at the dinner table behind a foreign prince who was destined for Otabek; he couldn’t honestly say he would be at all hospitable to him. In that respect, Isabella was doing rather well.

“I see,” he said, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin to remove any buttery crumbs. Yuuri and Victor were watching him carefully as he rose from the table with a scrape of his chair, causing another stirring of chiffon en masse in the crowd as they craned their necks to see him leave. “I have time now. Brother. Katsuki.” He nodded towards the other two diners, who were clutching each other’s hands as though they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing, then turned on his heel with his chin held high and walked out of the dining room towards the staircase once more.

As he walked he contemplated who, out of he and Isabella, was having the more difficult time enduring the entire situation. On the one hand, Isabella was watching the man she presumably loved being signed away to someone else for the rest of his life, and there was nothing she could do about it except serve said someone with a polite smile carved on her face. And yet on the other hand, there was something ever so slightly humiliating about the idea that Jean-Jacques was fraternising with a servant behind his back, assuming him to be ignorant to the entire romance as though he were simple. Anyone with a pair of eyes could see his devotion to Isabella from the way he wrote his letters, smitten and unable to even help himself from talking about her. For as long as the marriage was being insisted upon, neither of them could ever be happy. And there was something strangely comforting in the knowledge that he wasn’t the only one miserable about it, he wasn’t the only victim.

Their walk led them back to his rooms, and saw him standing in the middle of the rug with his arms outstretched as Isabella pinned various frills and buttons on an already heinous yellow jacket. The moment Yuri had laid eyes on it he’d decided he hated it, but he’d been timidly asked to go behind the dressing screen and change so Isabella could make any necessary adjustments. It was the colour of vomit, in Yuri’s opinion, nothing like the canary yellow he favoured himself, and the material was thick and itchy and covered in an ugly damask pattern. It didn’t need anything else to add to the pomp of it all, but Isabella still approached with the additional trimmings in a basket to pin on his sleeves, cuffs, neckline and hem. He felt like a doll in Mila’s childhood collection, so tightly bound in his clothes that his movements would be stiff and wooden. Perhaps he could excuse himself from the state dinner early by claiming to feel faint, as he was certain he had never worn anything so restricting in his life and nobody would question him for being lightheaded after several hours trapped in it. He felt as though he suddenly understood every complaint Mila had ever made about her corsets, and he vowed to write to her and apologise for the times he had poked fun at her for it.

“I think this is all, your highness,” Isabella said finally, breaking him out of his train of thought. She stepped back to allow him to look at himself in the mirror, though he regretted it as soon as he did. It was a good thing he was already engaged, he supposed, because he was sure no other man would look at him and desire him in this outfit. He could imagine Otabek now, hiding a sympathetic chuckle behind his hand as Yuri waddled around like a wrapped-up birthday gift. The thought made him smile slightly, and Isabella in turn let out a relieved breath, “Do you like it, your highness? The Dauphin wanted you to wear the finest clothes Versailles has to offer for your first state appearance. Royals and dignitaries from all across the world have been invited to meet his future husband.” He wasn’t imagining the way her voice went quiet at the end of the sentence, as though in her mind she’d been pretending it was her attending the banquet and the word ‘husband’ ended the illusion and brought home the reality. He pitied her.

“All over the world?” Yuri asked absently, reaching down to play with a lace frill on his cuff. It tickled his hand like when his cat licked his palm, and he was struck with a sudden and fleeting moment of homesickness. “Do you know where from, exactly?”

Isabella seemed surprised that he was choosing to strike up a conversation with her, and she considered her answer carefully before replying. “Mostly Germany, I think, your highness. But there will be guests from Greece, some of our men returned from new colonies in the Americas, and I believe some visitors from Italy. Alongside the dancers from Thailand, of course. The Dauphin selected them personally to entertain you tonight, he was telling m…us all about how Russian celebrations are always commemorated with a performance. It is how His Highness Prince Victor met his husband, was it not?”

Yuri hummed in acknowledgement, but his mind was already miles away. Visitors from Italy, that could mean he had a chance of seeing Sara and Michele once again. Their father was a dignitary, a high-ranking man who would be the exact choice to send in place of the Italian royals to a dinner such as this. And then they would return to Kazakhstan, being the family of the ambassador, and would be able to pass on a message from him to Otabek. Any message he wanted, one he could write down for pages and pages and pages to express to him his continued love and desire to be with him. And, most importantly, one that Yakov could never get in the way of Otabek receiving. Nobody would suspect Sara or Michele of being a messenger.

Suddenly, the prospect of the dinner seemed altogether brighter. Yuri dismissed Isabella once he had changed back out of the offending yellow outfit and into his purple garments once again, allowing her to set to work on stitching the last-minute embellishments elsewhere in the palace. Perhaps she would go and sit with Jean-Jacques while she worked; it was of little consequence to Yuri either way, now that he had his own secret affair so close within his grasp.

The rest of the day passed agonisingly slowly. Versailles was a land of milk and honey, decadent and overflowing with beauty, and yet Yuri found himself stuck for anything to do that held his attention for longer than five minutes. The library, although extensive and stocked with all the best novels the world had to offer, bored him after one cursory browse. The music room, where musicians awaited to play the harp or piano for him on command, held no interest for him either beyond the opening bars of one composition. The garden seemed too prim and too neat when he compared it to the wild beauty of the summer house in Almaty, and he gave up walking there after his third identical row of roses. He was at such a loose end that he almost contemplated going to find Victor, but he checked himself before he even took one step up the staircase. He was already bored, he didn’t want to add irritation and anger on top of that too.

Yuri ended up laying on his back in bed, staring up at the canopy of the curtains and twisting a strand of his hair around his finger. Occasionally he would think about something, such as Isabella and her secretive relationship with the Dauphin or how many other ridiculous rules he would be introduced to at dinner, but for the majority of the time he lay in silence and counted the seconds as they ticked by on the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. The dinner was to be held at seven that evening, the performance by the Thai dancers just before it at five, so he knew he only had to lay still until four before it was acceptable for him to begin preparing himself. Writing the letter to Otabek took the longest amount of his time, as he took a while to work out how to begin it, but once he’d started his thoughts flowed freely and uninhibited onto the page until the envelope he placed them in was completely stuffed full.

And eventually, four o’clock tolled and Yuri was up out of his bed like a shot. He took care of his own hair now that Yuuri had rid it of tangles, combing it into smoothness before carefully twisting it into an elegant braid tied off with a gold ribbon. It wasn’t the same dreadful yellow as his outfit, but he supposed it was complementary enough that he could get away with it. He washed his face with the lukewarm water left in the bowl on the dresser, patting it dry as two servants came in to dress him with the ‘improved’ version of his outfit. He could have sworn Isabella had added more frills and ruffles than she’d pinned on earlier, but by that point in the night he could hardly bring himself to care. He could already hear the sound of hooves in the courtyard outside, the roll of carriage wheels over stone as guests began to arrive at the palace.

Yuri was not allowed to escort himself to the performance that night, but he instead had to wait for Jean-Jacques to greet him and guide him downstairs to the ballroom. It wasn’t the first time he was given a throne to sit on, but it was the first time that he’d been in such a prominent position; usually Yakov and Lilia sat side-by-side in the very centre of a podium, with Victor in pride of place on their right and Yuri just off to their left. Now, however, he and Jean-Jacques sat directly beside one another at the head of the ballroom with Victor and Yuuri being made to stand with the rest of the audience, and Yuri couldn’t lie and say it didn’t give him a power kick to, for once, be above his brother. He and Jean-Jacques barely exchanged more than a few sentences between them as they waited for the performers to emerge, with the Dauphin simply expressing his hope that Yuri would enjoy the show and remarking upon what a ‘charming’ job Isabella had done with his outfit. Yuri didn’t know how to respond to him except with a small nod, and the pair of them mercifully turned their attention to the middle of the room as the performers all filed out from the two doors at the other end of the hall.

They looked impressive, Yuri had to admit that. Unlike when Yuuri had performed at Victor’s birthday, which had been mesmerising for its haunting simplicity, this was an altogether more busy and bold affair. They wore clothes in bright colours that were trimmed with gold, none of the French pastels in sight. Their shoes even had bells on them that tinkled when they walked, and Yuri knew that once they started to dance the noise would encompass the entire room. Despite himself, he found that he was leaning forward on the throne to try and get a better glimpse of them all as they came closer and lined up to bow in front of the prince and his future husband. The man in the middle, who didn’t look as though he could be much older than Yuuri, seemed to make up for his small stature with the fact that he was already radiating energy. Even from his vantage point on the podium Yuri could see that his eyes were bright and his mouth was set in a wide grin, and it was he who began the performance by suddenly leaping out of his bow with one leg extended straight into the air.

Yuri hardly paid any attention to the rest of the audience for the entire duration of the show, finding himself admittedly entranced by the dancing and music that filled the ballroom. The performers had so much energy it was contagious, and there were so many of them that no matter where he looked his eyes always fell on something new and exciting to see. By the time they eventually fell back into line and joined hands to finish with another deep bow, he found that he was actually slightly breathless, and he leaned back in his chair to blink away his awe. It was only once the applause from the audience died down that he realised Jean-Jacques was laughing softly next to him, his eyes fixed on Yuri’s face.

“I take it you enjoyed it, then?” he said, rising from his throne and offering his arm to Yuri. Cheeks flushed, Yuri stood up and linked their arms together as was expected of them, so they could lead the procession out of the ballroom and towards the dining room. “I have invited the leader of their troupe to dine with us tonight,” Jean-Jacques was saying as they walked. “His name is Phichit Chulanont. He is from Thailand, I’m sure you’ve already been told. But don’t worry, I hear he speaks English perfectly.” His hand squeezed Yuri’s arm reassuringly, and Yuri squirmed a little.

The grand dining room had been prepared to perfection, each place set with fine china and silverware and centrepieces crafted from richly-coloured irises, something Yuri had learned recently were the national flowers of France. Candles lined the walls and sideboards to illuminate the room with a warm glow, and he could already smell the food that was set out ready for the servants to bring around. He had elected to skip lunch that day to give himself more time to write the letter that was now tucked safely inside his jacket, so his stomach growled at the thought of finally being able to eat again.

However, as with all things in Versailles, there was some level of ceremony before anything normal could happen. The guests who were given the honour of dining with the royals lined themselves up along one side of the room so Yuri and Jean-Jacques could go along and greet them all in turn, which proved to be exhausting considering the limited common languages that some of them spoke. The parties from Germany, for example, had little grasp of French and only a shaky knowledge of English, and considering the sheer amount of guests it took almost ten minutes to get through them all. The parties from Greece were a similar affair, while those from the Americas were able to communicate fluently in both English and French with such a strange accent Yuri had a difficult time not snickering. Eventually, after an enthusiastic greeting from the Thai dancer who’d entertained them, he reached the last two guests in the line.

The twins looked just as Yuri remembered them, Sara’s long dark hair teased into thick curls and her gown a pale lilac to match her brother’s suit. Michele’s expression was dark as he regarded Yuri, and it made his blood run cold. What was the glare in aid of? He’d always been rather stony-faced, but now he looked…angry. Angry with Yuri, it seemed. When he stopped in front of them he extended his hand to Michele, then leaned in to kiss each of Sara’s cheeks, as was the custom now they were in France.

“It is good to see you again,” Yuri said quietly, bowing his head. Jean-Jacques was still absorbed in chattering to Chulanont behind him, so he had just a moment of privacy to speak with the twins unheard. “I hope we can speak for longer, later…”

“I’m afraid not.” Michele’s voice was hard and firm, and Yuri looked up at him in surprise at being cut off so suddenly. Beside him, Sara sighed quietly and rested a calming hand on her brother’s arm.

“We stopped here as part of a tour,” she explained, keeping her voice very soft. “We continue on to England tonight. Our ship will not wait for us, I’m afraid we cannot stay.” It was as if she was refusing to look at him, her long eyelashes sweeping her cheeks as she kept her gaze firmly on the floor. What was wrong with them both? Why did Michele seem so angry, and Sara seem so subdued? Didn’t they understand that Yuri didn’t want to be here?

Yuri shifted anxiously and chewed on his lower lip, reaching into his jacket, “Well will you at least take…?”

“Yuri.” Jean-Jacques appeared behind him with no warning, an arm circling his shoulders to guide him away from the twins. He craned his neck to try and look back to them, but they were already being shown to their seats at the other end of the table by one of the servants. He tried to stay calm – he would find them after dinner and pass them the letter then. “I have sat you beside your brother, to make sure you are comfortable,” his fiancé was saying, once he started listening to him again. “And you will also be next to Baron Haas, from Germany. He was the man with the rather wonderful moustache, do you remember? Try not to worry, he speaks English quite well so you should have no trouble.” He smiled in what was clearly meant to be a reassuring way, but Yuri just nodded and took his seat near the head of the table.

It was during that dinner that Yuri realised precisely what he disliked most about Versailles: the people. He didn’t enjoy the pomp and frills and decadence of the place, he didn’t like the constant routines and rituals, but he absolutely disdained the people themselves. It seemed as though everyone he spoke to was a social climber desperate to get anywhere near the top, whether that meant dressing the prince in the morning or elbowing each other out of the way to get a glimpse of them having breakfast. It was exhausting, and perhaps the worst part about it was the way in which they gossiped to drag each other back down the ladder. Even now, sitting around the table, he could hear whispers and giggles and the insufferable rustle of chiffon as a lady raised her hand to cover her mouth as she bitched to her neighbour behind it.

While Yuri was ignoring his food and trying to keep his eyes locked on Sara and Michele, servants moved around behind them topping up drinks and taking away empty plates. For the most part they ignored the diners and the diners ignored them, but on more than one occasion Isabella – now dressed in the smarter uniform of a serving girl – would stop beside Jean-Jacques’ chair to refill his wine and the pair would exchange quiet words in French before she forced herself to move on. They were speaking too softly for Yuri to really make out what they were saying, but the frequency at which she stopped by was becoming almost laughable.

At one point during dinner Yuri was desperate to see if anyone else noticed it, so he leaned over to Victor on a whim and cleared his throat before saying in Russian, “I’m beginning to think Jean-Jacques believes our whole party shares a single brain cell and we must take turns using throughout the day. Does he not realise how astoundingly obvious it is that he’s hiding something?”

Victor, recovering quickly from the shock of Yuri willingly speaking to him, let out a burst of laughter which he immediately hid behind his napkin. His eyes creased around the corners as he tried to force himself to stop smiling, and Yuri cleared his throat quietly and turned his head away for a moment until he too was sure his expression was neutral. “Whatever do you mean?” Victor asked, the corners of his mouth trembling as he fought to maintain his composure. However, for as much as Victor had clearly found what Yuri had said funny, there was still a small tell-tale crease between his eyebrows that let Yuri know he really had no idea what was going on. He didn’t see the connection between Jean-Jacques and Isabella, and Yuri realised that perhaps only he could see it, having had the advantage of reading the many letters where he talked about her so romantically.

Yuri shook his head and waved him off, forcing himself to take a bite of his food before the servant behind his chair took it away to replace it with dessert. It was some sort of parfait, lemon and strawberry that he was sure had just been picked for its ability to fit with the pastel colour scheme. It wobbled slightly when Yuri poked it with his fork, and although it looked unappetising he was saved from taking a bite by a rather rough hand nudging his arm from the other side of his chair. As it turned out, however, the interruption was as much a curse as it was a blessing.

Baron Haas was an old man compared to the other guests around the table, some ugly thing with a nose covered in poorly disguised boils and a bit of quivering fish stuck to his lip. He was vile, and he reminded Yuri all too well of Maksatov back in Almaty. Even his clothes seemed ill-fitting, the buttons straining on his nasty brocaded jacket. And now he was leaning in so close to Yuri, he could smell rancid alcohol on his breath that made him feel sick to his stomach. “Look at them,” he said, his English coming out with a good deal of spittle. “Rather close, are they not?”

Yuri followed his eyeline to see who he was looking at, and found himself watching Yuuri and Phichit Chulanont talking animatedly nearer the middle of the table. Phichit was telling some sort of a story and gesticulating broadly with a wide smile on his face, and Yuuri had his head ducked to try and quieten his laughter in response to whatever he was saying. “What?” Yuri asked, not quite understanding what Haas meant and not being in the mood to be polite.

Baron Haas hiccupped and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “The two orientals. Bonding over their connection to the far east, I expect. They all speak in the same tongue out in those parts.” 

On the other side of Yuri, Victor went very still, blinking at the pair of them in silent disbelief. It was clear he was too shocked to say anything in his husband’s defence, the spoon in his hand dripping parfait back into his bowl.

“I’m sure they have more to talk about than that,” Yuri snapped, surprising himself with his own outburst. He cleared his throat and cast his eyes down to his lap, muttering, “They’re performers. They’re likely discussing their work.”

Haas looked taken aback, his flabby jowls trembling as he shook his head indignantly. “I didn’t mean to offend…” he began to huff, clearly getting ready to defend himself.

“I’m not offended,” Yuri said coolly, lifting his gaze up from the table and placing a spoonful of food into his mouth. He could see Victor staring at him in his peripheral vision but he refused to look his way, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the painting of a hunting party that was hung on the opposite wall of the dining room to keep him occupied for the rest of the meal.

An incredibly uncomfortable silence followed, only broken when Haas once again leaned closer and said, “I must also congratulate you on your engagement, your highness. Yourself and the Dauphin seem radiant as a couple, I have told as much to every man here tonight.”

That was enough to make Yuri look away from the painting and glare at him hard. “You told everybody here that I am happy with Jean-Jacques?” His mind instantly went to Sara and Michele, and what they would think of being told that Yuri was content with his engagement. No wonder Michele had been so angry, he must have thought Yuri had played with Otabek’s heart for the fun of it while his true feelings lay with Jean-Jacques.

“But of course, your highness. Anybody can see how he has charmed you.”

Yuri gripped his spoon so hard his knuckles turned white and the metal bit into his palm. He couldn’t imagine a situation worse than what was happening, a situation worse than one where the twins honestly believed he loved Jean-Jacques and Otabek had been nothing but a brief bit of fun for him. It couldn’t be further from the truth, and he was ready to throttle Baron Haas for planting the idea in their heads. Evidently his rage showed through in his expression, as Haas made no further attempt at conversation beyond a muttered, “Your highness” upon everyone’s departure from the table, something Yuri was incredibly glad about. He had already lost his patience with the court of Versailles, and he longed to be back in a part of the world where keeping your life private was a coveted virtue.

After dinner the men among the party retired to the drawing room for cigars and drinks, while the ladies moved to a parlour to play cards and have tea. Yuri was swept along with the crowd of women to a point until Jean-Jacques placed a hand on his arm to guide him back to the drawing room, and he looked over his shoulder frantically to try and find out where Sara and Michele had disappeared to.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stopping in his tracks and causing his fiancé to turn and face him in confusion. “The party from Italy, did you see where they went after dinner? I’ve been acquainted with them before, you see, and I was hoping I might have a proper conversation with them this evening…”

Jean-Jacques blinked and tilted his head to the side. “I’m afraid they already made to leave, Yuri. Did they not tell you they are currently touring the continent? I believe their carriage was waiting throughout dinner for them to finish.” He glanced beyond the corridor and hummed to himself, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You might still be able to catch them if you try the courtyard now, I believe they had to wait for their carriage to be brought around.”

Yuri wasted no time in turning and walking away, waiting until he was out of sight before taking off at a run. He sprinted through the winding corridors of the palace as fast as he was physically able, and by the time he made it down the grand staircase and through the entrance hall his chest was burning with exertion. He could hear the crack of a whip and the sound of wooden wheels moving over cobblestone, and he swore he could feel the blood drain from his face. “No…” he breathed, already reaching into his jacket to pull out the letter in the vain hope that maybe, just maybe, he would be able to catch up with the carriage and pass it to Sara through the window.

“Please!” he called, bursting through the doors at the front of the palace and running out into the night. “Please! Stop!” Nobody was around to hear him, the sound of rushing water from the fountains drowning out his voice as he continued to race down the long road to the gates. But his clothes were so tight they were making it harder and harder to breathe, and he was helpless to stop the carriage as it rolled out of the gates and into the darkness beyond. “No!” he screamed, stopping and gripping the letter tightly in his fist. “No!”

The night went silent, with his heavy laboured breathing the only sound to break it. The letter was crumpled in his hand, its thick pages creased and the ink spelling out Otabek’s name smudged by the sweat of his palms. It was hopeless. Sara and Michele’s presence at the dinner had seemed so promising earlier that day, a chance to finally send a message to Otabek after months of no contact. But now, what were the twins taking away with them? A false story spun by Haas about how happy Yuri was with his engagement, the sight of him wearing the pompous fashions of the court as though he belonged in them? If they told those things to Otabek, which Yuri was loathed to admit that they would, he would think Yuri didn’t want him. He would become convinced of it, if the fact that his letters had suddenly stopped hadn’t already put end to any romance they had.

Yuri felt as though someone had punched him in the chest. He sniffed, raising a hand to his face to find fat, hot tears rolling down his cheeks unbidden. It was hopeless, completely and utterly hopeless. And what, now, could he do except go back inside the palace and pretend everything was normal? Who could he cry to about this that would listen? Mila had already been taken away from him, and he would be damned if he tried to make Victor or Yuuri understand since they were partly responsible for his current situation anyway.

He could have screamed. He could have fallen to his knees and scraped his nails against the earth until they bled and ripped his golden hair out in agony until there was nothing left. But he couldn’t. He had a role to play and it was all he could do to calmly take a breath, tuck the ruined letter back inside his jacket, and begin the walk back to the palace with the last of his hope drained out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I am so so so incredibly sorry that it took me such a long time to get this posted! I’ve been completely swamped with uni work and I still have 10,000 words to write over the Christmas break as well as an exam to prep for so I tried to make this chapter a little longer in case there’s another gap between updates (although I promise I’ll really try and avoid that!) Thank you so much to everyone who has been so patient and understanding, I know how annoying it is to wait for updates that seem like they’re never coming so I hope you guys understand how much it means to me that you’ve waited this long! Honestly I’ve even had a nightmare trying to upload this chapter, it’s currently 1am here in England and my WiFi suddenly decided to die so I’ve had to airdrop the file to my phone and copy-paste the entire thing from my iCloud files to AO3 using my 4G, so if the formatting of anything seems a little off I apologise and I’ll fix it tomorrow morning once I have use of my laptop again! 
> 
> Couple of things about the chapter: sorry if it seems like more of a filler, I promise some real drama will start to pick up in the next chapter for sure! Also, I know Phichit didn’t feature too heavily in this chapter, but for all you hamster boy fans out there don’t worry, he’ll have more of a role in the next chapter! And once again, like Maksatov, Haas isn’t based on any YoI character but is just someone I made up for the purpose of having him stir up drama. Anyway, that’s everything! Thank you so much for being so patient with me and so nice about the wait! Please do comment and let me know what you thought of this chapter, it really means a lot to me! <3


	18. Ruined Reputation

Yuri refused to leave his bedroom for the entire week following the party. He found that he wasn’t even bored, he didn’t need to turn to books to entertain him, all he wanted to do was lay in silence and think over what had happened. No matter which way he looked at it, it had been a disaster. Michele and Sara were going to go back to Almaty and tell Otabek he was happily engaged to Jean-Jacques with no problems at all, that he’d acclimatised perfectly to the decadence of Versailles and acted like he belonged there. It couldn’t have been further from the truth.

The only person Yuri had permitted into his room was Yuuri, and only once, when he’d taken his bath on Sunday and needed his help to comb and plait his hair again. Even then, they sat in silence, although Yuuri made a few desperate attempts at conversation while he gently worked a brush through the damp strands of gold hair. Yuri either replied with short, one-word answers or refused to reply altogether, and Yuuri had left with his eyebrows furrowed concernedly and an expression on his face that said he was going to tell Victor about Yuri’s behaviour immediately.

Jean-Jacques had been insistent on seeing Yuri to make sure he was alright, and it was up to Victor to relay the lie that he was sick and not interested in being shown in public until he was better. This worked to some extent, as the horrific morning visits from all the ladies of the court stopped and a servant came to quietly deliver him his meals three times a day, usually when he was sleeping or sitting in the window seat with his back to the door so he didn’t see them come and go. Sometimes he ate the food, sometimes he ignored it, but it was always provided like clockwork regardless of his appetite. Occasionally the tray would hold a small bunch of flowers or a neat note from Jean-Jacques expressing his hope that Yuri would be well again soon, and Yuri found that they made excellent kindling when the fire in the hearth was starting to die out.

On the sixth morning of the week, after his breakfast had been dropped off and he’d picked at the crusts on some buttered toast, he was about to take up his usual position in the window seat when a noise coming from said opened window distracted him from his melancholy. Frowning, he walked over and knelt up on the cushion to poke his head out and look down to the courtyard below. The view was nothing particularly special, since his chambers did not face the front gardens of the palace and therefore all he saw was the cobblestone area where the servants came and went from the kitchen to carry out their duties. That morning the courtyard appeared empty, at least from Yuri’s vantage point, with nobody milling about that he could clearly see. And yet the noise continued, a sort of choking sound as though someone were being violently sick.

Yuri made the decision without thinking to leave his room for the first time in days to go and investigate. He pulled on his shoes and abandoned his breakfast, walking silently down the hallways and sticking to the carpet runners to stop himself making noise on the wooden floor. He’d come to learn that his breakfast was brought to his room after the rest of the court had finished eating in the dining rooms, so by his somewhat shoddy calculations that should mean that everyone was either back in their chambers relaxing or taking a morning walk around the gardens to enjoy the fresh air and help their food go down. In short, he shouldn’t run in to anyone who might question him about his sudden miraculous ‘recovery’, and he could take the main staircase down to the entrance hall without worrying.

It was his growing suspicion that something at Versailles was not completely right that drove him down the narrow hallway towards the servants’ quarters. He’d felt it ever since he’d arrived, and he’d become increasingly aware of little things, little gestures, between members of the French court that seemed at odds to him somehow. Many of the people were completely insufferable to him, their constant gossiping grating his nerves like nails down a chalkboard, but he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was being hidden from him since he’d arrived.

At the end of the hallway he made sure he hadn’t been followed before stepping out in to the courtyard. The sun was oppressively hot, and beads of sweat already started to form around his hairline as he tried his best to stick to the shaded walkway around the edge of the square. There were stacks of empty milk pails and crates that had once held fresh produce from the local farms propped up close to the door, and for a moment everything was quiet, leaving Yuri to wonder whether he’d heard anything at all or if the heat was making him delirious and he’d simply imagined it. He reached up to try and tug the lace ruffles at his neck down a little so he could breathe more easily, when he heard the same retching sound as before coming from just behind the stack of barrels he was using for shade.

Frowning, Yuri stepped out slowly and squinted against the sun, raising a hand to shield his eyes. When his gaze finally focused, he had to take a moment to be sure of what he was seeing. The water pump used for filling buckets for baths stood in the middle of the square, and leaning heavily against it was a servant, a maid with her uniform unlaced to expose her collarbones as she splashed herself there weakly with the cold water. Yuri watched, too surprised to react just yet, as she doubled over and proceeded to empty the contents of her stomach on to the ground, clutching at her side as she resigned herself to the sickness until it passed and she could spit ungracefully to one side.

It was only then that Yuri registered who she actually was, the milky white of her hands betraying that she’d never been instructed to carry out the same outdoor labour as her colleagues and the silky black of her hair betraying that she’d been given oils and bath milks as gifts drawing him to the conclusion that this particular maid just so happened to be the prince’s favourite. “Isabella?” he asked, taking a step closer.

Isabella straightened immediately, which seemed to have been a bad idea as she had to press a hand to her forehead and close her eyes tight, presumably until the world stopped spinning. “Your highness…” she said, her voice weak and trembling.

Yuri blinked, taking a few more steps closer to get a good look at her. “Have you been drinking?” he asked, surprising himself by speaking in French without even realising he was doing it. Either he was becoming acclimatised to life in the palace or he felt some sort of concern for her and wanted to be gentle, and quite honestly he wasn’t sure which was worse. The only conclusion he could think of was that she was drunk; the way she was acting reminded him strongly of Mila, after a night of drinking when she would wake up in the morning and sit at breakfast swaying in her chair with a bucket beside the table ‘just in case.’

Looking vaguely horrified, Isabella held up a hand and waved off the accusation desperately. “No! No, your highness, it’s the heat, nothing to concern yourself with. Please, I feel just fine.” Even as she said it, however, it was obvious she was lying. Her face looked pale and clammy, the only colour the bright spots of red in her cheeks. There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead and chin and upper lip, and she didn’t seem to be able to completely focus her eyes on him even as he stood still in front of her. She was also still clutching her side so hard her knuckles were turning white, none of which particularly endeared Yuri to the idea that she was in completely good health.

“I can go and find help,” he said, not entirely sure why he was offering. He knew that if Isabella fainted, or worse, on his watch and it was discovered that he’d known about her fragile condition beforehand he would be in deep trouble, if not from Victor then certainly from Jean-Jacques. Yuri made to step back towards the building, eager as well to get out of the blistering heat and back in to the cool interior of the palace. 

“No!” Isabella cried, trying to walk after him only to moan in apparent pain and double over to retch once more over the ground, this time producing nothing. The entire scene was so dramatic and alarming that Yuri found himself frozen to the spot, unable to move closer to help or ask again what was wrong with her.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to. He heard Jean-Jacques before he saw him, beginning with the concerned cry of, “Bella!” from the doorway behind them before the thundering of his footsteps carried him out into the courtyard and over to her side in a heartbeat. Immediately a protective arm circled her shoulders to hold her up and one of his hands went to rest on her gently, his head bent low towards her as he murmured to her in quiet, rapid French. Still dazed himself, Yuri was able to pick out the words ‘safe’, ‘doctor’ and ‘rest’ before something in his brain clicked and he remembered that he should probably explain himself.

“I heard her getting sick from my bedroom window,” he said quietly, almost reluctant to interrupt whatever strange moment they were sharing together. He didn’t question why exactly Jean-Jacques had appeared through the servants’ entrance, whether he’d followed him down that way or come of his own accord as some part of routine – it seemed like the least of his worries at that moment. “I just came down to see if she was alright. I was going to go and get help but I…” He paused, his eyes finally coming to rest on where Jean-Jacques had placed his hand.

On Isabella’s stomach.

Directly on Isabella’s stomach, an inch or so away from where she had been clutching her side just moments ago.

“Oh.” A strange sense of calm washed over Yuri, and he tried to think about why that might be. The realisation hit him then that whatever happened now, this changed things considerably. The inevitable progression of his relationship with Jean-Jacques from forced engagement to forced marriage was going to be affected by this new development in one way or another, it could not continue as planned without some sort of discussion. And whatever that discussion was, whatever was said, it meant one thing: time. In just five minutes of sickness Isabella had bought him precious time that had been running out as he hurtled towards his eighteenth birthday.

Everyone in the courtyard was silent for a moment, Isabella staring at the floor as though concentrating very hard on not being sick while Jean-Jacques’ gaze kept flitting back and forth between her and Yuri, teeth gnawing his lower lip and brow furrowed deeply. “Yuri, I…”

“She needs a doctor. Take her in to her rooms and I will go and fetch the court physician.” Yuri’s voice was cool and detached, a sense of relative calm still lingering about him as he turned on his heel and walked briskly back inside the palace. Perhaps he was selfish to be thinking of his own benefit in this situation, but he justified it by thinking that Jean-Jacques had been selfish to create the situation in the first place. Whether their marriage was desired or not, what he and Isabella had done – presumably more than once – constituted infidelity. Yuri could not care less about their personal exploits, but it certainly made it easier for him to feel better about thinking how this could be an opportunity for himself.

Yuri took the back stairways to avoid anyone of note that might drag him off for gossip and distract him from his task, eventually reaching the office of the head of security, one of the few men permitted to ride to and from the palace in to the city to fetch the doctor when needed. He knocked firmly on the door, trying to steel himself to face the cool and penetrating stare of the man sat behind it. He heard the monotone ‘enter’ and pushed his way in, hovering just in the doorway as he did not intend on staying long.

Monsieur Marchal was a cold man, one that Yuri was admittedly a little afraid of. Occasionally while brushing out his hair Yuuri had teased him about the ways Marchal dealt with extracting information from prisoners in a bid to try and scare him into talking, and Yuri had listened in silence but the stories made him shudder whenever he thought about them. Currently he was sat behind his wooden desk, a parchment in front of him upon which he was writing out some sort of list. “May I help you, your highness?” he asked, the drawl of his voice giving the impression he was bored already.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Yuri gave a quick nod. “A lady has been taken ill and we require the court physician, immediately. She is a…favourite of the Dauphin,” he said, tilting his head in a way that he hoped implied what he was trying to say. He knew it was unorthodox, the fiancé of the prince coming to seek help for that same prince’s mistress, but there was nothing entirely normal about their situation to begin with.

Marchal looked at him for a while longer before nodding once and rising from his chair. “I will ride for the doctor. Might I suggest keeping the lady in her rooms and away from the members of the court? Lest she make them unwell, of course.” Lest she allow everyone to see her with the prince, is what he meant, and Yuri nodded in understanding before ducking back out of the office and practically running up the stairs. He needed to be in his room when it was announced, as though he had no idea what was happening.

When Yuri reached his chambers he sat down at the window seat as usual and picked up the closest book to him, some sort of guide to astronomy with a golden sun at the centre of the universe on the deep blue leather cover. Regardless of how beautiful the book was or how interesting its contents, he simply sat with it open on his lap and stared blankly at the pages while his mind wandered elsewhere, listening to the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece as he waited for the hour to tick by.

 

* * *

 

 

The doctor confirmed the pregnancy within minutes of being in the room with Isabella. Yuri knew this because he could see the horse run in to the courtyard from his window, Marchal holding the reins and the doctor sat behind with his arms around his waist. Yuri had yet to see the court physician, and he was momentarily distracted by the oddities in the way he moved, his small frame holding tightly to Marchal until they both dismounted and he walked into the palace with surprising grace. Ten minutes later, a knock at Yuri’s door had him looking up from his feigned reading, and a servant was telling him his presence was requested in the throne room.

It came to Yuri’s attention at this point that he had yet to actually meet the King and Queen of France. They had been absent upon his arrival at court under the excuse that they were not required to be present unless Lilia and Yakov were also in attendance, and the same excuse was given for Yuri’s dinner with the Thai dancers the previous week. After Yuri’s six day isolation in his bedroom, he realised that he had not yet said a single word to either of them, and that thought was somewhat intimidating as he walked down a long corridor behind the servant escorting him. Of all the contexts for a first meeting to take place, this was hardly ideal, and he could just imagine his parents trembling with rage at the present circumstances they now found themselves in.

The throne room was eerily silent when Yuri entered. The King and Queen were seated on two thrones on a carpeted pedestal at the head of the room, Marchal standing just behind the King’s throne with one hand resting on the ever-present sword by his hip. The doctor was stood just in front of the pedestal and off to one side with his head bent low, while Victor and Yuuri were stood rigidly opposite. Jean-Jacques looked to be in the worst state, standing between his parents with his face completely devoid of colour and his hands shaking slightly by his sides. Yuri walked until he was in front of the pedestal, sinking in to a low bow to greet the King and Queen with a confused expression on his face as though he didn’t already know exactly what was going on.

“Is there a problem, your majesty?” he asked, his voice dripping with a feigned innocence as he looked back and forth between his hosts.

From one side of him, he heard Victor scoff. The King cleared his throat.

“Our physician has identified that an…indiscretion has taken place,” he began, sounding so incredibly uncomfortable just talking about the subject that Yuri had to hold back a smile. He liked to imagine that Yakov had been similarly scandalised when he’d found his letters to Otabek, the only consolation of that entire nasty day. “A young serving girl in the palace appears to…be with child. And Jean-Jacques has confessed that he has…fathered that child. My son has insisted we inform you of this out of respect for your honour.”

If he did say so himself, Yuri’s acting in the next few moments was nothing short of stage-worthy. He gasped, a hand held to his chest and another pressed to his forehead in shock, looking at Jean-Jacques with an expression on his face as though he had been hurt right to his core. “No!” he breathed. “That cannot be true, surely the girl is just ill, surely it will pass.” He looked to the doctor expectantly for answers, eager for him to drive the point home and confirm once more that she truly was pregnant.

When the doctor raised his head, Yuri realised why he had found him slightly strange from the window. Besides a rather obviously false moustache glued to her face, the doctor was quite obviously female at this distance, her large eyes looking at him from behind wisps of blonde hair. That could perhaps explain how it had taken so little time to decide that Isabella was pregnant, presuming she could identify certain signs a male doctor might overlook. “I can confirm it,” she said, nodding solemnly. “I apologise, your highness, but it is true.”

Yuri shook his head as though full of disbelief, casting his eyes to the floor. “I don’t know what to say…” he whispered, forcing himself with every fibre of his being to hold in the smile that was threatening to burst out of him.

“I know what to say.” The voice was Victor’s, as he strode out to stand beside him in full view of the King and Queen. “This is an insult to our family, to the crown of Russia! You cannot expect my brother to uphold this engagement when the Dauphin has so blatantly betrayed not only his trust but the terms of our agreement as well. You are fortunate that it is me standing here and not my mother and father, for they would ask for greater reparations for this inconvenience than just the cancellation of the marriage.”

The King seemed to be practically squirming in his seat, his pride likely hurting more than any other part of him at being reprimanded by someone so many years his junior. Yuri had to admit that Victor had never sounded so much like Yakov, the way his face was set like hard stone and his hand was clenched in to a fist at his side appearing rather alarming in contrast to the sickeningly loved-up persona he’d adopted since his farce of a wedding. Yuri was not entirely sure whether to be impressed or unnerved.

“We understand your grievances, your highness, of course,” the King said, trying in vain to placate Victor and calm the tension in the room. Behind the throne Marchal looked poised, as though anyone present posed any sort of threat. He was like a dog that could smell fear, Yuri thought absently, before turning his attention back to the situation at hand. “But the invitations for the wedding have already been sent out. Regrettably recently, I must say – they will likely not reach their destinations for another two or so days. It is too late to recall them now and to send another letter immediately would cause widespread gossip and scandal. For the sake of my family’s reputation I implore you to see reason; it is impossible to cancel this wedding as it appears on paper.”

Victor was still fuming, the red of his face providing an interesting contrast between the white of his hair. “And so what would you propose we do?” he bit out.

Before anyone had the chance to answer, Yuri raised his head and said clearly, “Jean-Jacques must marry the servant, of course.” All heads turned towards him, though he kept his eyes fixed firmly on his would-be fiancé, willing him with his gaze to go along with anything and everything that he said. “There will be no change to the invitations, guests will arrive on the given date expecting a wedding and that is what they will get. Only it will be her, whatever the lady’s name may be,” he fought off a smirk as he met Jean-Jacques’ eyes, “Marrying the Dauphin instead of myself. I will attend as a guest only.”

The King and Victor both spluttered disbelievingly at once, shaking their heads and beginning a torrent of reasons why the plan could never work and why Yuri was near insane for suggesting so. Among the murmur of voices Victor could be heard protesting, “It’s an insult to the family, Yuri!”

“I entirely agree, for the Dauphin of France to marry a nameless serving girl in front of crowds expecting a Russian prince would be devastating for the court. The marriage of the future King of France is a sacred affair, it will not be cheapened by the introduction of such…outside relations. There is a clear difference between a mistress and a spouse and those paths do not cross, not ever. At least not in the Palace of Versailles.” The King raised his chin and gripped the arms of his chair tightly, defiantly.

Yuri bit his lip and looked back and forth between him and Jean-Jacques. “She can be given a title, can she not? A Duchess, a Marquise, a Countess. Claim she is of noble birth and I would like to meet the man or woman of France who would dare question it. Provided they marry soon the pregnancy should not be obvious to anyone in attendance at the wedding. I see no reason this could not work out perfectly well for all those involved.” Seeing that the King was still not convinced, Yuri tipped his head back to try and adopt the same haughty expression as he wore, folding his arms over his chest a little like a petulant child. “We are respectable men, your majesty. We have faced enough degradation today, surely you do not mean to insult us further by making us bear witness to the Dauphin of France abandoning the first child he has fathered?”

The King looked exasperated, though Yuri could tell his resolve was breaking. It was not a situation that any of them had expected to find themselves in, and for once Yuri had the upper hand. France was a strong nation but Russia was not the one you wanted to make an enemy out of, and the King would be unwise to test Yuri’s patience further. He knew his resignation was coming as he sighed, “Your highness this does not seem…”

“If Jean-Jacques does not marry this woman,” Yuri interrupted, and he could see Victor staring at him out of the corner of his eye. “Then we will tell every noble family we have ties to that he is a ruined man, that he has insulted us beyond forgiveness and that he is entirely unsuitable for marriage.”

Victor made a strained noise and gripped Yuri’s arm tightly. “Yuri! We will do no such thing, we will not sink to this level of…”

“Yes, yes we will. Either he marries the serving girl or he marries no one at all and his reputation is ruined. Which would be a worse fate for France? The child that girl is carrying might well be a boy. An heir, if he marries and makes it legitimate.” Yuri looked directly at the King, and after a moment everyone else’s heads turned slowly to look at him too. He was holding his breath, his entire body tense as they awaited his verdict, thoughts already spinning through his head at the possibilities of what might happen if this went in his favour.

Eventually, after an agonising period of silence and staring and tension, the King’s shoulders slumped a little and he gave a slow nod. “Once the lady has completed her bed rest as prescribed by the doctor she will be granted the title of Marquise and engaged to the Dauphin. Henceforth the engagement between the Dauphin and Prince Yuri is terminated, although he is invited to remain at court for the wedding, which will commence in just over one month’s time. I will allow you to write to the Empress and relay these new developments, for your own modesty, of course. I can only deeply apologise for the trouble this has caused you.”

Victor was the first to leave the throne room, turning on his heel and stalking out in long-legged strides. Yuuri walked after him calmly with a backwards glance to the others still assembled, who in turn attempted to break the tension by moving themselves in place. The doctor, having stripped herself of the ridiculous fake moustache, was now standing beside Marchal and their heads were bent together in apparently deep conversation, perhaps arranging ways of keeping the pregnancy a guarded secret until such time that it could be publicly revealed. The King and Queen rose from their thrones and murmured something in low voices to Jean-Jacques, who waited until they had departed before walking down from the pedestal and dragging Yuri into a sudden, tight embrace.

It took him so much by surprise that he was unable to return it in time, and the next thing he knew he was being held at arm’s length and Jean-Jacques was looking at him with a warm smile and flushed cheeks. “Thank you,” he breathed, eyes searching Yuri’s face for any sign of discomfort with the outcome of the situation. Did he not know that Yuri had engineered this exactly the way he wanted it? “I’m sorry. I did not like lying to you, I did not feel good about it, I can only hope you understand that love will make even the most rational person act in was they can’t predict.”

Yuri shook his head. “I know,” he said gently. He found himself to suddenly be very tired, unaccustomed to such a broad range of emotions in the short space of a morning. He’d isolated himself from court for almost a week before this had happened, and now all he wanted was to return to his chambers and begin his plans for the upcoming wedding – an event he was rather excited about now that he was absolved from the duties of being one half of the wedded couple. After all, a wedding meant guests, and a royal wedding specifically meant international guests. “I don’t mind. It was never what I wanted, anyway.”

A strange expression came over Jean-Jacques’ face at this remark, a mixture between melancholy and relief. “Never?” he asked quietly, and Yuri wondered what he hoped to hear. Had he hoped that Yuri felt something for him at one point, that a marriage between them would have been happy if it had gone ahead? Or did he hope that Yuri felt nothing for him at all and was not hurt in the slightest by the way things had turned out?

Yuri decided to be truthful, and he shook his head firmly. “Never.” He looked over his shoulder to where he could hear rapid arguing in Russian, and he sighed. “I should go and tame his wrath before something gets broken. Please do give my best to Isabella.” He had no doubt that Jean-Jacques would go downstairs and tell her the news the second he was released from the conversation, and his suspicions were confirmed when the Dauphin turned on his heel and practically ran from the room as though he were being chased.

Taking a deep breath, Yuri followed the direction of Victor’s ranting until he found he and Yuuri standing in an empty hallway, Victor pacing angrily up and down and Yuuri pinching the bridge of his nose as though he had a headache. He looked up when Yuri approached, an unreadable expression in his eyes, but Victor did not seem so calm.

“Do you have any idea what this wedding will be like?” he demanded, instead of greeting Yuri in any sort of traditional way. “It is public humiliation, Yuri. All those guests, all those monarchs and nobles come to see the wedding of two princes and what will they find instead? A badly-disguised pregnant woman with a suspicious new title marrying the Dauphin while the prince he was originally intended for looks on as a member of the crowd. It’s an embarrassment.” Yuri wondered if perhaps his anguish was comprised partly of fear; after all, Victor had been sent to France with Yuri to keep an eye on him, to see that he remained civil to the French court and that the marriage between he and Jean-Jacques went smoothly, but instead it had crumbled on his watch and Yuri had made demands that would lead to their public scrutiny. “An insult! An insult to the family!”

“Oh, shut up Victor! It was an insult to the family when it was arranged in the first place, the entire engagement reeked of desperation and greed and I never wanted any part of it.” Yuri sniffed and put his hands on his hips, lifting his chin defiantly. “What’s done is done. I, for one, could not be happier with how things have been left. And you can relax now too, we no longer play a role in the preparations of this wedding and our stay here is now purely for leisure. Perhaps go and take a rest, brother, stress truly does age you terribly.”

A little nerve jumped in Victor’s jaw and he looked as though he wanted to argue further, but instead he turned on his heel and made for the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing as he stomped on the wood and ignored the luxurious carpet runners.

Yuri sighed and leaned back against the wall, shoulders slumped. He’d almost forgotten that Yuuri was standing there, and so when he mumbled, “Christ, he sounds like our father,” he was rather surprised to actually get a response.

“You mustn’t tease him. He’s absolutely livid that the Dauphin has degraded you like that.”

A bored expression flitted over Yuri’s face. “Of course, degrading me is one of Victor’s favourite activities, the Dauphin was infringing on that closely-guarded privilege.” He played with the ends of his hair as he allowed his mind to run over the events of the morning, thinking about where exactly these new developments left him. Unfortunately, Yuuri didn’t seem to be tired of talking just yet.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

Yuri sighed and leaned his head back against the wall. “Yes. I knew something was going on between them but I did not know how serious it was. I even tried to tell Victor at dinner but I don’t think he saw it the same way I did. I knew about the pregnancy from this morning, I found her after breakfast being sick in the courtyard.” He shrugged one shoulder lightly. “I knew I had to act scandalised if I had any hope of convincing the King I would go public with the information. If I walked in there calmly instead of throwing a tantrum I would have got nowhere.”

Yuuri gave a little disbelieving shake of his head. “Sometimes I wonder what I have gotten myself involved in, marrying your brother.” His voice was fond but there was a crease between his eyebrows, whether from confusion or concern or something else Yuri wasn’t sure.

Slowly, Yuri rolled his head on the wall to regard his reluctant brother-in-law closely. He was dressed rather plainly that day, having not been forced to adopt the ugly, gaudy fashions of the French court, however the image of him skating his routine on Victor’s birthday was still fresh in Yuri’s mind. “If you want to be useful to me then you can find the court tailor and bring him to my chambers this afternoon,” he said, deciding that between this and the post-bath hair brushing it was as much of an olive branch as he could currently stand to extend. “I would like to commission an outfit. Something perfect for a wedding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy guyssss. It's been a while. Once again, really sorry, a lot's happened irl with uni and everything so it's taken me a hot minute but here it is! Sorry it's not quite as long as the last chapter, I was going to add another scene to the end of this one with Yuri getting fitted for clothes but it's currently 1am here and I think the scene will fit better at the beginning of the next chapter, so you have that to look forward to. What does everyone think of the (not so surprising) bombshell that Isabella's got a bun in the oven?
> 
> Also I'll admit now that the Marchal character is 100% Fabian Marchal from the TV series Versailles, because I binge-watched both series of it recently and I'm obsessed, especially with his character and Claudine (who is also 100% the female doctor in this chapter). Sorry if those two characters seemed a bit weird to anyone who hasn't seen the show, I just had to gratify myself and put them in there for fun. If anyone has seen Versailles and ships Marchal and Claudine as much as I do then p l e a s e hit me up and freak out with me about them because there is a woefully small fanfic collection out there for them and I need to vent. 
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I have essay deadlines coming up however I am then done for summer and I'll have almost six months of free time to myself! Plenty of time to write :D Please leave a comment letting me know what you thought, I really appreciate all the love you guys have been giving this fic so far and I can't thank you enough for sticking with my ridiculous excuse for an 'update schedule'! <3


	19. A Royal Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter: very slight NSFW, no real graphic description but if you would like to skip, stop reading after "a small frown creased Yuri's eyebrows."

“Remind me again why you need something new to wear. I thought the Dauphin has gifted you with a dozen new outfits since you’ve been here, are they not good enough?”

Instead of turning around to meet Yuuri’s eyes, Yuri looked at him in the mirror he was standing in front of, arms outstretched in a T-shape while pins were carefully placed underneath them. “They’re hideous,” he said simply. “The colours, the _ruffles_ , the sheer amount of _lace_. They’re too…French.”

Yuuri’s reflection smiled softly and looked back down at the pricing book in his lap. “French clothes, in the French court? Whatever next,” he murmured, thumbing through a few pages. They were seated in Yuri’s personal chambers, a mirror having been set up in the middle of the room and a chaise lounge pulled closer so Yuuri could sit and offer his opinion on the new clothes that were being designed for him. Phichit, who had remained at court since the banquet and struck up quite the budding friendship with Yuuri, was also present as he demonstrated a good eye for fashion and colour. He was currently standing with a swath of gold silk draped over one shoulder like an elaborate Roman chiton, hovering behind Yuri to try and get a glimpse of himself in the mirror. A decanter of wine had been brought up for them by the servants, which Yuri suspected was largely just a gesture from Jean-Jacques to try and apologise for everything, and there was a tray of pastel-coloured macarons that they had been picking at as well throughout the afternoon.

The court tailor had been significantly delayed in attending to Yuri’s request for a new outfit, as it turned out that the upcoming royal wedding had sparked everyone’s desire for clothes and he was overwhelmed with work. However, two weeks after the conversation in the throne room, the tailor had finally become available and Yuri had submitted his design ideas prior to the current fitting. He’d been adamant about just two things: the colours, and the lack of lace or frill. He wanted it relatively plain, understated and simple but classic, and in beautiful shades of sky blue and deep gold.

“Gold doesn’t come cheaply, you know,” Yuuri spoke up again, tracing his finger down the list of products in the pricing book. “The silk is really rather expensive. Is this being put on your father’s account?” He took a sip from his glass of wine, looking at him with genuine concern.

“No, Victor’s.” Yuri smirked, putting his arms down when instructed and allowing the tailor to adjust the fabric at his neck. The outfit was shaping up very nicely; the tailor was using a stand-in plain grey fabric to take his measurements and cut the cloth to the correct size, but he had shown him samples of his desired blue and gold and Yuri was already in love with the vision of them.

Phichit grinned and sat down on the chaise lounge beside Yuuri, draping himself across it with a sense of dramatics that could only be learned from a career as a performer. “Nevermind the price of it,” he said slyly, looking at Yuri with raised eyebrows. “I’d like to know why he chose it, wouldn’t you? It looks lovely, but it’s an interesting combination of colours…you would expect blue to go with silver, not gold.”

Yuuri sighed, closing the book and standing up to go and inspect the outfit closer. “I know why he chose it,” he said, fussing with the cuff of Yuri’s jacket. Yuri was beginning to suspect that ever since he’d allowed him to brush out his hair for him, Yuuri had taken it as a sign to begin mothering him at any opportunity. Yuri didn’t necessarily object to it – what he objected to was being spoken about as though he wasn’t in the room. Fortunately, Yuuri directed his next question at him, looking him sincerely in the eyes. “I suppose now you’ve finally got your way, you’d like to make sure nothing could possibly go wrong?”

Without hesitating, Yuri nodded. For months now, people had stood between him and what he really wanted. He’d forced himself not to think about the possibility of getting his way, because the reality that it was impossible had been too painful to confront. But now there was a real chance that he could emerge from all this as the victorious one, in spite of his mother and father and the whole court of France. Now he wasn’t just thinking about it, it was consuming his every thought. Even when he slept, it occupied his dreams each night.

“Well. I hope you have thought this through,” Yuuri said, dropping his hand from where it rested on Yuri’s arm. “One person can only handle so many setbacks before it begins to wear them down.” It was clear what he meant, and he confirmed it a moment later by adding, “Your parents arrive this afternoon. A servant rode ahead and told Victor this morning that they travelled through the night instead of stopping to rest. It seems they’re eager to speak with you.”

Yuri’s expression hardened. “I can’t imagine why. I simply found a way out of the most advantageous marriage they could possibly have hoped for me, what could they want to talk about?” At the tailor’s instruction, he began to carefully remove the outfit so it could be taken back to his shop and altered in time for the wedding, which would take place in just under two weeks. “Whatever they have to say to me, it will make no difference. Jean-Jacques will take nobody but Isabella now that she has been promised to him, and Victor would kick up such a fuss about the insult of it all that I expect my parents would be shamed in to conceding.”

As if on cue the sound of the gates opening out in the courtyard drifted in through the open window, and Phichit raced across the room to lean on the window seat and stare out. “Goodness, Russian carriages are quite austere, aren’t they? Compared to the French ones, I mean.” He pressed his palms against the window to get a better look, the jewelled rings on his fingers tapping on the glass.

Yuri put on his regular clothes and thanked the tailor before he left, then drifted over to the window to get a look for himself. Victor was walking across the courtyard with his posture ramrod straight, perhaps expecting to be reprimanded for allowing such an indiscretion to take place under his watch. The carriage door was opened by a servant, and the first person to step down was Mila. She was dressed in a deep green, and wore an expression of exhaustion and irritation. She didn’t wait for anyone else to depart from the carriage before walking off towards the front door, shouldering past Victor with less than ladylike grace. The next person to emerge was Yakov. The darkness of his clothes was a stark contrast to the sickly pastels of Versailles, and Yuri found himself admittedly yearning to be out there with them just to be around some familiarity. Yakov exchanged some words with Victor that Yuri couldn’t hear all the way up from his room, before turning and offering a hand back towards the carriage for Lilia. Her skirts emerged first, dark purple and heavy, and once she was down she leaned in to kiss each of Victor’s cheeks. It seemed there was no tension between them, and Yuri wasn’t sure how to feel about that. On the one hand he supposed he should be grateful that his parents were in a good mood, as it would surely be easier on him later, but he had also hoped to see the favourite son be told off just once.

“Those are your parents?” Phichit was saying, as Yuuri came up behind them and joined them in looking down on the courtyard. “They are…impressive. I think I expected them to be fairer, from what I have seen of you and your brother…” He continued to talk, but at some point Yuri completely stopped listening to him, for something else had caught his attention.

Yakov and Lilia had not been the only people in the carriage. After they moved off towards the palace, Victor walking between them and engaging them in conversation, another figure stepped down with their arm raised slightly to protect their eyes from the bright sunlight. At first Yuri could not quite see who it was, then the man turned to help his wife from the carriage and all the breath rushed out of him at once. A handsome man, with a full head of dark hair, and the woman who stepped down after him was beautiful and had her hair wrapped in a scarf, her hand holding the much smaller one of a young girl in a pale yellow dress.

“It’s the King,” Yuri whispered. “It’s the King of Kazakhstan, and that’s…that’s Princess Aida, but where…?” He leaned closer, nose practically pressed against the window, waiting with held breath for the one face he really wanted to see to emerge. But it never came. Instead the servant closed the door and climbed up to stand on the back of the carriage, the driver cracked the whip, and it rolled back out of the courtyard. Yuri slumped down on the window seat, his chest feeling cavernously empty. “He isn’t here.”

Yuuri bit his lip, glancing out of the window. The Kazakh royal family was making their way inside, Aida now holding her father’s hand and looking around her at the splendour of the palace. “There must be a reason,” he said gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Come, let’s go and greet them, Victor seems to have neglected to do so.” It was the first time Yuri had ever heard him say anything even slightly negative about Victor, and it was enough of a shock that he nodded dumbly and rose to his feet to follow him from the room. Phichit seemed to think it best not to follow them, and parted ways with them once they left the room in favour of finding the music room.

The walk downstairs to the entrance hall felt strangely unreal, like every step Yuri took meant plunging his feet into sinking mud that made walking an effort. He supposed he was terrified of reaching the bottom of the stairs only to hear some sort of awful news, and his mind was unhelpfully supplying a list of possible reasons why Otabek might not have arrived with his family. Perhaps he was married now? Would he have a wife, would they be expecting a child? Or perhaps his leg had gotten worse, perhaps he was ill and could not get out of bed. Or worse, what if he was dead? By the time they reached the hall, Yuri felt sick to his stomach. 

Only some of his fears were alleviated when he heard a scream echo throughout the room and the rush of small feet towards him, and he just had time to steel himself before his arms were full of yellow chiffon and squirming limbs. Aida wrapped her arms tight around his neck and clung on so he had no choice but to hold her up off the ground, the sight of her bringing a smile to his face despite himself. After all, if something terrible had happened to Otabek, surely his little sister wouldn’t be so cheerful now? “Hello, your highness,” he laughed, leaning his head back to look at her. “You’re taller! I didn’t say you could grow, you’ll be taller than me in no time.”

Aida seemed absorbed in the fact that Yuri’s hair had grown longer since their last meeting, until her eyes fell on the person standing behind him. “Who’s that?” she asked, and Yuri could have cried from how much he’d missed her blunt, straightforward way of talking. It was childish and perfect and such a far cry from the wheedling niceties of the French court that it hit him like a drink of water on a hot day.

“Aida, don’t be rude.” The gentle reminder came from the Queen, who was still hovering a little way away with her husband. Yuri hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to her much while he’d been visiting Kazakhstan, primarily due to the fact that the majority of his trip had been spent solely in Otabek’s company, but he knew she was a kind woman from everything he had heard. He smiled at her reassuringly, adjusting Aida on his hip. 

“It’s alright,” he said, turning around. “Aida, this is Yuuri, he has my name. He is married to my brother Victor.” He walked her close enough that she could reach out and shake his hand, their olive skin tones more similar than the contrast between she and Yuri. Once she had been introduced her curiosity seemed to expire, and she wriggled back down until she could stand on the floor properly again. Yuri looked back to the King and Queen, suddenly overcome with shyness. How much did they know? Had Yakov spent the trip to the palace telling them of the events in the summer house, the letters and the drawings, the fact that Yuri was no longer pure as a man should be on his wedding day? Did they still think the wedding was going ahead as planned? He had a million questions racing through his head, but in the end all that left his mouth was, “I did not expect you to arrive today.”

The King smiled and nodded. “The Empress was so kind as to extend an invitation to join the Russian procession here,” he said, welcoming Aida back to his side with an arm around her shoulders. “We were reminded of the cost it would incur to bring our own servants and attendants all the way here – an unnecessary expense when we were so fortunate to travel with your parents.” It sounded like a very well-rehearsed speech, one that perhaps Victor would have bought but that Yuri didn’t believe for a second. He and the King shared a look that confirmed his suspicions, that the Kazakh royals would have preferred to travel alone in the comfort of their own pleasant company but were essentially bullied in to joining Yakov and Lilia.

“And…Prince Otabek…?”

The King and Queen exchanged an uncomfortable look, and Yuri felt his heart constrict in his chest. “He has been delayed,” the King said eventually, and Aida pressed her forehead against his leg, hiding her face. “The Empress has requested his services in overseeing the smooth transition of power from local authorities to the royal family in Russia’s new territories. We very much hope he will make it here in time for the wedding.”

Yuri felt the colour drain from his face, felt a twitch in his fingers as though his hands were trying to curl into fists. “A military posting?” he checked, although he already knew the answer.

“Yes, your highness. But in the meantime he would like us to congratulate you on your engagement.” The King smiled sadly and nodded to him once more, then reached down and took Aida’s hand to lead her past Yuri and up the stairs to the rooms that had been given to them for their stay. Yuri was so struck dumb by this newest of developments that he was unable to say anything to stop them, anger stewing inside him with each passing second. A military posting, when he was already traumatised from the war that Lilia had forced him in to in the first place.

A faint buzzing sound found its way through the fog of rage in his head, and he was able to pay attention for long enough to realise it was Yuuri, now standing beside him with a hand on his arm. “Yuri,” he was saying gently. “You need to be rational about this…”

Yuri shook his head firmly. “No, no I don’t.” He shook off Yuuri’s hand and stormed up the staircase with his hands clenched at his sides, taking a sharp right and stalking along the hallway of closed doors until he heard Russian voices drifting from behind one of them. He didn’t hesitate to fling the door open and tear inside like hell unleashed, interrupting the conversation between Lilia and Victor and not stopping until he was stood directly in front of his parents.

“Yuri,” Lilia said calmly, folding her hands in his lap.

“Why did you send him away?” he demanded, cutting her off before she had a chance to say anything else. “Why him, why did it have to be him? You have hundreds of soldiers, thousands. Why _him_?” Yuri folded his hands over his chest, not caring that it made him look slightly like a petulant child, not caring that everyone in the room was staring at him. He was reminded of another time they’d had a conversation like this, the day he’d been told about Jean-Jacques; he had come so far since then and yet still they were putting things in his way.

Yakov rose from his seat to put himself at a greater height than Yuri, looming over him. “Did you think I would risk having him here after what has happened? Perhaps if you had managed to do as we asked and hold on to your engagement with Jean-Jacques, we would have been able to allow him to attend. As it stands, it is for the good of everyone that he stays away until this whole mess can be…”

“You’re trying to tell me this is _my_ fault?!” Yuri could feel his face heating up, his cheeks no doubt red and his forehead creasing in to a frown. He could see Mila out of the corner of his eye holding her hand over her mouth, overwhelmed emotionally from the long journey to France and the subsequent fight that she was now being forced to witness. “You expect me to believe that if I’d done what you said, you wouldn’t have sent him away? You’re _lying!_ You’re trying to keep us apart by going to the worst possible lengths! He’s _traumatised_ from the war, he almost lost his fucking leg…" 

“YURI!” Lilia’s voice was firm now, and she was leaning forward in her seat. Victor had put his head in his hands and was leaning his elbows on the mantelpiece, back turned to them all. Mila’s eyes were glassy, and Yuuri was frozen in the doorway. 

Yakov spoke next, his voice eerily calm. “You would do well not to suggest that he is a coward as well as a liar,” he said, still towering over Yuri. “As it is, I am at the end of my tether with him. He has corrupted you in such a way that a marriage with Jean-Jacques would have been nothing short of a miracle, and now you have ruined this for us as well. You _and_ your brother.”

“ _Me?_ ” Yuri protested. “I wasn’t the one who got the girl pregnant!”

“But you refused to swallow your pride and take him regardless. From what I hear, Victor insisted that your honour had been offended because of his indiscretion with the serving girl, as though you are entirely blameless yourself. Need I remind you that you are damaged goods? That you have no right to be turning away engagements because of _their_ misdemeanours when you have spoiled yourself too?” Yakov sat back down, adjusting his jacket haughtily. “Do not be ignorant, Yuri, you were raised to be smarter than that. You should have known how to bargain your way in to maintaining the marriage agreement, but of course I cannot trust either of you to be selfless.”

Yuri’s shoulders sagged, and he sank down on to the sofa beside Mila, her dress crinkling under his weight. He felt her place a hand subtly on his back, and was quietly grateful for the reassurance. “Why can’t you let me have this?” he asked, worn out and dejected and reduced to the point of openly begging for what he wanted. “Jean-Jacques is going to marry Isabella. Christophe Giacometti has married somebody else. There is no prince left who is single and suitable for my age, no princess either. Otabek is a _prince_ , Mama, he is royal. Why are you so adamant that we cannot be together?"

Lilia sighed, setting her jaw and straightening her back. “Don’t you see, Yura? You can do _better_ than him. To marry in to a family that is subordinate to us would be an insult to our position, don’t you understand? We can find you someone noble, someone with a fortune who is not dependent on us for their finances.” She shook her head. “It is not going to happen. In the event that he does arrive for the wedding, I would advise you not to speak with him, it will only make the separation harder on you. We are doing this for your own good, Yuri, for your future. You cannot despise us for that.”

  

* * *

 

The two remaining weeks until the wedding sped by faster than Yuri could comprehend. The palace was a frenzy of cleaners and maids for fourteen solid days, and the court tailor was ever-present as he fitted each courtier with new clothes and shoes and accessories perfect for the big day. Arguments broke out in the salon over clashing colours and stolen designs, bargaining and betting took place for certain coveted pieces of jewellery, and there was an abundance of wine flowing under the pretence of tasting it for the banquet table.

Yuri began each day the same way, taking his breakfast in his room and watching out the window in the hopes that the gates would open and Otabek would ride in, just in time, looking healthy and happy to see him. In his imagination Otabek would somehow know exactly which room was Yuri’s, and would look up at the window and wave to him. But it never happened, and four two weeks he was forced to eventually emerge and join Mila for walks around the gardens to distract them both from the upcoming festivities. For as excited as Yuri had been before about his new outfit, now he cared very little for it, refusing the second fitting the tailor offered him and deciding that if it didn’t fit he’d just have to deal with it. It wasn’t as though he had anyone to impress any longer, anyway.

Mila was good company, and she quickly replaced Yuuri and Phichit as his constant shadow. She quietly endured his ranting about Yakov and Lilia with occasional interjections of agreement and support, and sat and played with his hair when he got tired of ranting and wanted to lay down in the grass outside to rest. During the daytimes Aida often joined them; she took a shine to Mila like a duck to water, eager to discuss everything from her dresses to the books she liked. She even had Mila teach her some dance steps in preparation for the night of the wedding, as Aida proudly revealed that she had been given permission to stay up until ten to join in with the celebrations. During one of these conversations Yuri had found himself unable to bear keeping her in the dark, and had told her that he was not going to be the one marrying Jean-Jacques. She had told her parents, who in turn told Yuri that regretfully they were unaware of Otabek’s current posting location and could therefore not write and tell him. They did, however, promise to tell him Yuri’s situation as soon as they all returned home to Almaty, which did something to alleviate his feeling of unease. Perhaps, even if they couldn’t marry, they could find a way to still see each other every now and again.

When the day of the wedding finally rolled around, the energy in the air was practically tangible. Yuri awoke to find a bath had been drawn for him in the corner of his room, sweet rose-scented steam rising from the surface of the hot water. He took his time bathing, washing his hair until it shone gold and his body until it was pink. He climbed out and had just wrapped himself in a robe when there was a knock at the door and Mila entered, carrying with her a garment bag and wearing a bright smile. She was wearing a beautiful dress of pale lilac, flowers woven in to her hair and a dainty pair of white gloves on her hands. Amethyst earring were dangling from her ears and a matching necklace adorned her throat, and she looked every bit a princess.

“It was just dropped off for you,” she explained, nudging the door shut and hurrying to lay the bag on the bed. “I know you’re upset about his not being here, but perhaps if the King and Queen see you wearing it, they will tell him about it and it will have the desired effect regardless, hm?” As she spoke, she unbuttoned the garment bag and opened it up, and Yuri walked over to join her. Together, they looked down at the outfit laying in front of them, the pair of them struck silent. The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the soft drip of water on the floor as Yuri stood dumbly in his robe, still sopping wet. Eventually he took a deep breath and, as calmly as he could manage, asked,

“Why the hell is it white?”

The outfit was almost exactly as he had expected it to be. The design was plain and simple, there were the gold accents he had asked for, but in the place of the beautiful sky blue there was nothing but stark white cloth. It looked to be of good quality, the fabric some sort of fine silk, but it was _not_ what he wanted.

“I…I know that tailors sometimes substitute fabrics when one is not available…” Mila said, looking warily between Yuri and the offending outfit to measure his reaction. “Or…or perhaps he simply forgot the correct design? Everyone in the palace has employed him for some reason or another these past few weeks, perhaps he got confused between two patterns…”

Yuri pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tight shut. “Whatever the reason,” he whispered. “I am going to arrive at this wedding dressed like a bride, and enter a room where everyone already thinks I am the one intending to marry. They’ll think the switch is some sort of surprise to me! Oh god, they’re going to /pity/ me, as though Isabella was just a last-minute decision I had no idea about!” He threw himself down on the bed, creasing the outfit and definitely exposing parts of himself to Mila in the process, but she remained admirably undeterred and sat down beside him with a huff.

“You’re not going to let this stop you now. You have made it this far with the majority of your pride intact, the colour of your outfit will not send you in to a breakdown. And if it does, you are not the Yuri I left back in Russia.” Mila folded her arms adamantly, and stared at the back of his head until he lifted it and begrudgingly took the outfit in his hands.

“At least he isn’t here to see this,” Yuri whispered, stroking his fingers over the gold silk. It wasn’t a hideous outfit, by any means. It was still far more preferable to him than the ugly pomp of Versailles fashion, and as he sat there staring down at it, a thought came over him that had him vaulting up from the bed and running across the room to his dressing table. “It matches, it matches the…” He carefully withdrew what he’d been looking for and came back to the bed to kneel in front of Mila, holding it out to her in his hand. “Will you help me put it on?” he asked. Dangling from his fingers was a thin gold chain, with a beautiful white enamel flower pendant. He’d been guarding it closely ever since he’d left Russia, as it was one of the only things to survive Yakov’s cull of all the possessions Otabek had given him. Now, it seemed fitting to wear it. Its creamy petals and gold detail would complement the accidental colour scheme of his outfit in a way that, while he hadn’t planned for it, was quite poetic in its own way.

Mila fastened the necklace carefully around his throat and smiled, sitting back to admire her handiwork. “Beautiful,” she decided, standing up and smoothing out her skirts. “Now, you had better get dressed, you already took longer bathing than you should have. Your family are all downstairs getting seated, the wedding will begin soon. I’ll wait here for you so we can walk down together, it wouldn’t do for you to go in alone.” She turned her back with a soft giggle to give him some privacy, and Yuri took a moment to think about just how grateful he was for her presence. This day was sure to be humiliating on many levels, and the knowledge that she would be with him throughout was intensely comforting.

Yuri dressed as quickly as he was able, asking Mila for help with his hair and the last little touches to his outfit once he was decent. Eventually he took her arm and left the room, his heart thudding in his chest as they descended the staircase and joined the flow of people moving towards the palace chapel. More than one noble Yuri didn’t recognise stopped to congratulate him and wish him luck, and he found himself getting so caught up in everything that he almost believed he was going ahead with his own wedding as planned. The nerves were certainly the same, and it was only Mila’s reassuring hand on his arm that stopped him turning and running in the other direction back up the stairs.

Mila had not been wrong about how soon the wedding was starting, as most guests were already seated by the time they arrived. Their own seats were in the very front row of pews, and they hurried forward down the aisle to slip in beside Victor and Yuuri. Victor, Yuri realised with a boil of rage like hellfire, was wearing a suit made entirely of sky blue fabric, the very sky blue fabric he himself had requested for his outfit. He had half a mind to reach across the pew and smack him upside the head with his hymn book, but before he could act on this enticing impulse, the priest stepped in to the view of the gathered crowds and a silence fell over everyone. It was only then that Yuri actually noticed Jean-Jacques, looking admittedly handsome in his military dress uniform and wearing an expression of mixed nerves and excitement. 

Music began at the back of the hall, and Yuri felt his palms sweat where they rested on his lap. Any second now, everyone would realise what was going on, everyone would realise it was the wrong person walking down the aisle.

Yuri didn’t turn around to watch Isabella walk in. But he knew exactly when she had entered, as a gasp rang out across the chapel and immediately whispers began to circulate. He was incredibly grateful that they were sat at the front, as it meant he didn’t have to witness everyone’s heads swivelling to look for him, but the tips of his ears still burned red and he felt almost certain that he was going to be sick. Besides anything else, he found himself feeling quite sorry for Isabella; nobody wanted their guests to be fixedly staring at someone else while they were walking down the aisle. He risked a glance down along the pew, and saw that not one member of his family had turned around either. They were all staring resolutely forward or down at their laps, and when he looked further down the row and saw the King and Queen of Kazakhstan, they were doing the same. Only Aida was turned around, and she was actually looking at Isabella, her eyes wide as saucers and a bright smile on her face.

When Isabella reached the front of the chapel, Yuri could see what had entranced Aida so much. She did look beautiful, almost unrecognisable as the serving girl who had been vomiting in the courtyard just a short month ago. The dress she wore was cleverly designed to show nothing of the small bump that must have already formed in her stomach, and underneath her veil her face had been made up prettily like a doll. Jean-Jacques’ expression as he looked at her was evidence enough that Yuri had made the right decision in kicking up a fuss and insisting their engagement be broken off. Even if Yuri was unable to marry Otabek, he had saved Jean-Jacques the misery of marrying someone he did not love, and enabled him the luxury of being with the woman he genuinely wanted. 

Even as the priest began the service, Yuri could hear the gossip raging on behind him. Whispers from all around that were amplified by the echo in the chapel reached his ears in scraps, words like ‘scandal’ and ‘embarrassment’ and ‘harlot’ that he could not ignore no matter how hard he tried. It was obvious that Isabella and Jean-Jacques could hear them too, though they made a good show of pretending they didn’t. Rings were exchanged, vows were repeated, numerous hymns were sung during which Yuri enjoyed the brief reprieve from the incessant murmur of voices. When the priest asked anyone to come forward who may have an objection to the marriage, he glared daggers at his family as though daring them to speak. He was quite certain that if a single one of them had even coughed in that brief moment of silence, he would have leapt up and attacked them. And before he knew it, the ceremony was over, and the couple were pronounced husband and wife in what Yuri felt to be the biggest metaphorical sigh of relief imaginable. There was no going back now, no way that he could be forced in to that marriage at the last minute. Jean-Jacques and Isabella were married before God, and in that moment he couldn’t have been happier for them.

The chapel cleared quickly, the newlyweds leading a procession of people out of the room and through the palace to the ballroom. The entire party was charged with a kind of energy that Yuri could only liken to Victor’s birthday celebrations, years before, when all of this had been nothing but a seed of thought in Yakov and Lilia’s heads. People’s talking and gossiping got louder, laughter rang out, shoes skittered on the marble floors as everyone moved en masse through the halls. Through the windows in the hall of mirrors Yuri could see that it was pouring with rain outside, the sky such a dark grey it felt almost like night time already, though it was only early evening. Mila appeared beside him and linked their arms with a contented sigh, clearly sharing in his elation that the waiting game was over and they could start to somewhat relax.

The ballroom had been decorated with hanging silks and an abundance of flowers in every possible corner, on every possible surface. Tables of wine and champagne were situated around the outside of the room and butlers wove their way between guests to refill any glass that even started to look low, and it didn’t take long at all for the guests to become lively enough to start dancing. The music was loud and constant, songs melting in to each other seamlessly with never a pause in between.

Yuri made a beeline for the table of champagne and fetched himself a glass, pressing one into Mila’s waiting hand with a grin. He could not find it within him to be sad any longer, at least not for tonight. In a sense, he had gotten his way. Jean-Jacques was off-limits, he had succeeded in bringing down one part of Yakov and Lilia’s plans for him. It was a cause for celebration, and he decided that he and Mila could commiserate about the future tomorrow while they nursed their hangovers and had a good reason to feel sorry for themselves. “Here,” he said. “I need you to drink just as many as me so I won’t be the only one in trouble with Mama and Papa.” He laughed, tipping back half his glass in one go and reaching for another when he felt a tug on his trouser leg.

Looking down, he was greeted with the sight of Aida, standing proudly in a deep red dress that looked beautiful on her. She had clearly been allowed to borrow her mother’s jewellery for the occasion, as a dainty gold chain hung around her neck with a red-stoned pendant, either ruby or garnet, hanging from the end of it. “I’d like you to dance with me,” she insisted, taking his free hand and beaming up at him. “I have been practicing, I need to show you.”

She sounded so sincere that Yuri smiled and handed his glass to Mila, who accepted it without complaint. “Please do show me,” he said. “I would be honoured to dance with you, Princess Aida.” He allowed her to lead him on to the dance floor, where bodies swirled and spun around them in graceful – and in some cases rather clumsy – circles. Yuri took one of Aida’s small hands in his own and placed the other on her shoulder, while she put her hand on his side as high up as she could reach. He carefully stepped forward, and she followed suit by stepping backwards, and together they made their way around the ballroom in careful movements. The difference in their height and stride made it a little difficult, and Yuri occasionally found his toes getting stepped on, but he couldn’t care less. Aida was proud of her skill, and Yuri had to admit that Mila had taught her well for someone so young. Her face was set in concentration, but occasionally she glanced up at him with a bright smile before going back to staring studiously at their feet. 

Eventually the music came to an end, the musicians pausing to catch their breath and tune instruments and place new sheet music on their stands. People began to arrange themselves in two lines opposite each other down the centre of the room, and Yuri looked down at Aida with a reluctant smile. “I think you might have to sit this one out,” he said. “But thank you very much for the privilege of dancing with you.”

Aida smiled and dipped into a polite curtsey. “You have to do it again later,” she demanded. “Before I go to bed. Remember, it’s at ten o’clock.” 

Yuri nodded solemnly. “Of course, I’ll remember.” He watched her run off in to the crowd before going to join one of the lines of dancers, beckoning Mila over to come and be his starting partner. The music began and the dance started, each person stepping forward in to the centre and placing their hands together to turn slowly in a circle before returning to the line one place further on from where they had started, ready to greet a new partner. The music began to steadily pick up the pace, encouraging the dancers to move faster until they were practically swinging each other around in mid-air and prancing to and from the lines like horses doing dressage. Yuri came across Mila a few times, laughing breathlessly each time she was spun in to his arms and practically squealing as she vaulted him around to his next partner. The room became a blur of light and colour, each person’s arms starting to feel the same as the next, until mercifully the music began to slow again and the dance returned to its original pace. 

Yuri was still reeling from being flung around so vigorously that, when he was passed in to the arms of someone whose suit jacket was damp to the touch, at first he didn’t register who it was. “Did you spill something on yourse…” he began to say, a laugh bubbling in his throat until he raised his eyes and his gaze fell upon the person who had caught him. Warm brown eyes stared back down at him, framed by thick lashes that were clung together in star points by rainwater. His hair was wet and clinging to his forehead, and his clothes were spotted with rain too, but he was solid and present and _there_ and for a moment it knocked Yuri’s breath straight out of him. Otabek.

“Beka,” he breathed, eyes lighting up and a bright smile overcoming his face. He didn’t give a damn what his parents thought, or what the reaction of the court would be, he was going to kiss him then and there and _show_ him how much he had missed him…

“Congratulations on your marriage, Yura.” Otabek’s voice was hoarse and emotionless as he cut him off, his expression betraying nothing of how he truly felt. He held Yuri at arm’s length and swallowed a lump in his throat; Yuri could see his adam’s apple bobbing beneath his shirt collar. “You look beautiful.”

The dance continued before Yuri had a chance to correct him. As the line moved on and he was swept away from Otabek and into another man’s arms, he barely had time to say ‘no!’ before Otabek’s attention was occupied by a busty blonde woman in a fuchsia dress clinging on to him. By the time the music finally drew to a close, he was down the complete opposite end of the line to him, and the crowd dispersing meant that he was separated from him by a swarming mass of drunken bodies. A hand caught his arm and he looked up to see Mila, slightly red-faced and grinning down at him giddily. 

“Who knew the French could throw such a decent party?!” she called over the sound of the new song that had started up, giggling and accepting a glass of champagne from a passing butler. “I want to do that again, I hope there’s another one later. Did you see Yuuri dancing with Victor? I’ve never seen him like that, he’s usually so _quiet!_ Perhaps we can get Aida to join us next time if one of us holds on to her…why do you look like that?”

Yuri’s eyes were frantically searching the room, and he was stretched up on to the very tips of his toes to try and see over the top of the crowd. Wherever Otabek was, it was clear that he was trying to put as much distance between himself and Yuri as humanly possible. He thought he was married, he thought the wedding had gone ahead as planned and Yuri was _married_ to Jean-Jacques. Everything was falling apart in front of him, and he internally cursed Victor and the tailor and every French silk merchant alive for sticking him in a white outfit that looked _horrifically_ similar to wedding clothes. “Otabek is here,” he said breathlessly, holding on to Mila’s arm for support as he continued to stretch and search. “He’s here, he danced with me, just for a moment…his clothes are wet, Mila, he must have just arrived. I expect he hasn’t even spoken to his parents yet, he still thinks…he still…”

“Yuri. Yura, you need to calm down. Here.” Mila passed him her champagne glass and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You are _not_ married to Jean-Jacques. Whatever he thinks, we will set him straight. He rode this far in the rain just to be here, somehow I doubt that he plans to simply run off and leave again straight away. Relax, alright? We will find him, or perhaps Aida will first, she’s small enough to go between people’s legs to seek him out.” She took another glass for herself and sipped from it calmly, keeping her hand firmly on Yuri to stop him bolting off.

The ball continued and the noise became less exciting and more agonising as he and Mila circled the room to try and find Otabek amongst the throngs of drunken guests. Music swelled and ebbed and drink glasses clinked together, and it all continued for what felt like hours before a hush finally fell over the room as the French King ascended the podium at the head of the room to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his voice ringing out clearly across the room. Now that everyone was still, Yuri took the chance to look around and _finally_ saw Otabek standing to his left closer to the wall. Aida was not with him, nor were his parents, so he could only assume that still nobody had told him the truth about the situation. The King continued his announcement, arms outstretched to the side of the podium, “May I present the Dauphin of France and his new wife, Isabella.”

Jean-Jacques and Isabella stepped up in front of the crowd to a round of enthusiastic applause, but Yuri wasn’t looking at them any longer. Instead he was staring straight at Otabek, who in turn met his gaze across the room with a wide-eyed stare of confusion and surprise and elation. He looked back at the couple, then back to Yuri, and Yuri shook his head with a small smile growing on his lips. Realisation dawned visibly across Otabek’s face and he looked around in a sort of fluster, and Yuri subtly pointed towards the doors at the back of the banquet hall with his hand down by his side so nobody would see. He had no idea where his parents were, but he was not going to take any chances of being found out now. Otabek nodded quickly in understanding, and Yuri whispered to Mila that he was going for some air before walking as briskly as he could from the room without it seeming suspicious. 

Yuri took a left as soon as he exited the ballroom and ran up the flight of stairs in front of him, the heels of his shoes clicking on the marble. The corridor at the top of the stairs was dark and empty, everyone in the palace preoccupied with the wedding celebrations and therefore mercifully distracted. He paused there, waited in the silent stretch of darkness with his breath held, heart thudding like a drum in his chest. He could practically hear his ears ringing, and his palms felt sweaty at his sides. And then he heard it, a hoarse whisper from just behind him that made him spin around where he stood.

“Yura.”

For a moment he just stared at Otabek, a foot or so distance between them. In the very dim light of the corridor he looked as beautiful as Yuri remembered, dried off now from the rain and warm in every sense. Inviting, comforting, familiar. The same gentle eyes and soft features in the same handsome face. None of Jean-Jacques’ bravado, none of Victor’s ignorance. He was perfect.

They could only have been staring at each other for a second before they both surged forward at once and grasped each other tight. Their lips slotted together firmly and their eyes slipped shut, bodies pressed as close as humanly possible. Otabek’s clothes still felt damp in this close proximity, but his hands were warm as they circled Yuri’s waist and drew him in, and Yuri’s warmed him in return as they rested either side of his neck and kept him in place. He was stretched up on his tiptoes to get a better angle, and as they stood there swaying slightly with tongues tracing lips and fingers relearning flesh, one hand snuck up in to his hair to feel the thick silky strands against his skin. In that moment he could have been back at the summer house, he could practically feel the sun on his back and hear the lapping of the water against the sides of the boat on the lake. 

He was reluctant to draw back for breath, but when they did they still stood close with their foreheads resting together, sharing each other’s breath. “I thought you’d married him,” Otabek whispered eventually, bringing a hand up to cup Yuri’s face and brushing his thumb over his cheekbone. “You stopped writing…and we received a wedding invitation…and the twins said you were happy here…” 

Yuri let out a choked little laugh and shook his head, gripping Otabek’s shoulders. “They were wrong. They were _told_ wrong, I was meant to give them a letter that night to pass on to you but I missed their carriage. Papa forbade me from writing to you – he found our letters, Beka, he burned them all, there was nothing I could do, I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”

“Shh.” Otabek kissed him soundly, gathering him closer and resting his head on Yuri’s shoulder. “We’re here now. But you scared me, Yura, dressed in white like this.”

Sniffing, Yuri laughed weakly into Otabek’s hair. “It was meant to be blue,” he mumbled. “Blue and gold.” He stroked his fingers gently through Otabek’s hair and scratched lightly at his scalp, feeling warmth spread through him at each point of contact. “And look.” He drew back and pulled the collar of his shirt down just enough for Otabek to see the pendant around his neck. 

“You kept it,” he whispered, touching it lightly with his fingertips. “I was worried maybe it was gone.” Otabek bit his lip, looking at the necklace for a moment longer before leaning in and brushing his lips to the spot where the chain met Yuri’s throat. Yuri sighed softly and was about to tilt his head back and melt in to his embrace when the sound of heavy footsteps on the marble staircase shocked them both out of their intimate bubble. They both froze, bodies stiff as they listened alertly.

“Maybe they’ll pass,” Yuri mouthed, afraid to even raise his voice to a whisper.

However, just a moment after he’d thought it, Yakov’s deep voice rang out through the hallway. He was calling for him, repeating his name and asking in Russian where he was. Yuri’s body spiked with fear and he grabbed Otabek’s hand without a second thought, dragging him in to an alcove in the wall with their backs pressed to the stone, looking at each other with wide eyes in the dark. Yakov’s voice grew closer and closer until it was obvious he was on the same floor as them, and then approached further still, until Yuri was certain they were going to be caught. After all, his white outfit was not easy to hide even in the darkness of the hallway. “Yuri!” A few more steps and he’d see them. A few more steps and there’d be absolutely no hiding them… “Yuri, where have you gone?”

Yuri braced himself, squeezing his eyes tight shut and hearing Otabek intake a faint sharp breath.

“Father!”

Yuri’s eyes flew open, and he and Otabek stared at each other in confusion. Yuri tilted his head to the side a fraction to listen to what was going on, but Yakov’s footsteps had stopped advancing, and he was now joined by another pair of footsteps moving considerably faster.

“Father. You are going to miss the Dauphin’s speech downstairs, we should be getting back.” It was Victor’s voice, cheerful and light.

“I am looking for your brother, Vitya.”

“Oh, I know where he is. I saw him go up to his chambers a little while ago, Mila was with him. I expect he’d like some time to rest and be away from everyone’s eyes, after all it has been a rather…humiliating day for him, in many ways.”

There was a heavy silence in which Yuri held his breath and prayed that Yakov believed him, and he didn’t release the breath until he heard him say,

“Very well. I will go down for the speech, but I would like you to find a servant and send them to check on Yuri.”

“Of course, father. I will join you downstairs in a moment.” The sound of the heavier set of footsteps retreating downstairs lasted for the next few seconds, and Yuri felt Otabek reach across the space of the alcove and take his hand. His palm was slick with sweat, as was Yuri’s, and he could feel his pulse fluttering at his wrist. Yuri had half a mind to step out and thank Victor once he was sure Yakov was gone; he honestly would not have imagined that Victor would openly lie for his sake, much less to their father, and it was the first sign he’d seen in years that the old brother he used to get along with was still in there somewhere behind the new haircut and husband.

However, before he could decide to expose their hiding place and attempt the first civil conversation with him, another set of footsteps arrived and a soft ‘hello’ rang out in the corridor. “Did he see them?” It was Yuuri’s voice, whispered and soft. There was the sound of rustling fabric, and Yuri could only assume he and Victor were embracing.

“No, he didn’t. I told him I saw Yuri going to his rooms with Mila. He won’t find out, Mila has gone to her own rooms to write a letter already.” Another sound, a kiss, followed by a quiet sigh. “We should go back downstairs before we draw more attention to this hallway than necessary. Are you enjoying yourself, my love?”

“I am. It all reminds me of our wedding, don’t you think so?”

 Victor laughed softly. “With far more people, yes. Not that it mattered, the only person I needed there was you.”

More kissing. Yuri met Otabek’s eyes in the dark and gave his hand a light squeeze, a strange feeling settling in his stomach. He’d wanted to believe for so long that Victor’s marriage to Yuuri had been frivolous, something done on impulse with no real feeling behind it. Something to show off, to make a scene, as Victor had always been one for dramatics. But listening to them talk now, he was loathed to admit that he understood the sentiment of what they were saying. It was like the summer house – Yuri hadn’t wanted anyone there, hadn’t needed anyone, would have foregone all the servants for the entire time they were there so long as it meant he could have his time with Otabek. The realisation that Victor felt for Yuuri in a way that was deep and genuine left a strange taste in his mouth. It put things in perspective, at a time when he didn’t have the energy or will to think about anyone’s relationship but his own.

“Should we bring them down with us?” Yuuri whispered, making it quite clear that they were aware of Yuri and Otabek’s position to some extent. Were they aware that they could hear everything being said?

“No, we will leave them. I trust Yuri to understand he must make a reappearance of his own accord soon, but for now, we will leave them be.” There was another rustle of fabric, perhaps Victor taking Yuuri’s arm, and then two pairs of footsteps descended the stairs and the hallway was once again left blissfully quiet.

Yuri looked up at Otabek and stifled a quiet laugh, closing the gap between them again and resting his head on his shoulder. “I thought my heart was going to burst,” he whispered, gripping his jacket and pressing his face against the side of his neck. “I didn’t even know I could hold my breath for so long.”

Otabek let out a long breath and tilted his head back to rest on the wall behind him, closing his eyes. “I think I would have been chased from the palace if he’d found us. God, Yuri, that was too close.” He wrapped his arms around him protectively and squeezed him, shaking his head. “I must thank your brother the next time I see him.” He glanced down at Yuri, lifting a hand to gently stroke some strands of blonde hair from his forehead. “They’re right, though. We should go back downstairs.”

A small frown creased Yuri’s eyebrows and his bottom lip jutted out in a pout. “I don’t want to,” he mumbled, pressing himself impossibly closer to Otabek so their legs were tangled together against the stone wall. One of his hands absently traced little patterns on his chest with his fingertips, while his other crept a little lower, brushing Otabek’s leg through his clothes in a way that he could have passed off as innocent if he’d really wanted to.

“Yura…” Otabek’s voice lowered several octaves, the mood in their little alcove had shifted. “We can’t do anything here…besides the fact we could get caught there just isn’t enough space, with my leg, we can’t…”

Yuri reached up and gently placed his hand over Otabek’s mouth to stop his rambling. “I could,” he whispered. “For…for you.” Swallowing a lump in his throat, he removed his hand and slowly, carefully, sank to his knees in front of Otabek. The floor was cool against him even through the fabric covering his skin, but he didn’t care. His whole body felt overheated anyway, thrumming with energy and anticipation. He looked up at Otabek through his eyelashes, silently questioning.

“Yura…you don’t have to…”

“You don’t want me to?" 

Otabek groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m only human, Yura, of course I want you to.” He braced his hands on the wall behind him and took a deep breath. “I just wanted you to be sure. I…I haven’t…since you. Not with anyone.”

“Neither have I.”

“I can’t imagine I’ll…last particularly long…”

“That’s okay.” Yuri looked up at him to double check once more before carefully untucking Otabek from his clothes, stomach flipping and heart fluttering with the same nervous excitement he’d felt the first time they’d done this. While Otabek had done this for him back at the summer house, he hadn’t ever attempted to return the favour before. He knew what he liked, what felt good, and he could only hope to replicate it successfully himself. Otabek was already semi hard in his hand, and after a moment of overthinking things Yuri leaned in and took him gently in his mouth, immediately hearing a sharp intake of breath from above him. At first he worried he’d already done something wrong, but then one of Otabek’s hands came and gently brushed his hair, and he relaxed again.

Yuri gave himself a minute to adjust to the alien feeling of having Otabek’s length in his mouth before beginning to move, slowly bobbing his head and using his hand to stroke along where his mouth couldn’t quite reach. In his mind he ran over his memory of when Otabek had taken him this way, recalling what he particularly liked. He tried drawing back a little and sucking lightly on the tip, which seemed to work as Otabek brought a hand to his mouth to stifle a groan. Perhaps doing this in a corridor where anyone could hear or see them had not been the best idea, but they couldn’t risk sneaking around together until they found an unoccupied room, so this would have to do. 

To Otabek’s credit he was doing well with not moving his hips, not pushing on Yuri’s head to get him to go faster. Even as it became obvious that he was drawing close to his climax, his hands tightening into fists by his sides and the stifled noises from his mouth becoming more frequent and less restrained, he stayed still and let Yuri work. The encouraging noises he was making were giving Yuri enough confidence to try new things, to run his tongue lightly up the underside of his cock where there was a thick vein and to gently reach to cup Otabek’s balls as he continued to suck him slowly.

Soon Otabek tapped Yuri’s shoulder with a slightly trembling hand, mumbling, “Yura…I’m close, Yura…” in a voice that sounded broken and desperate. Instead of pulling off Yuri kept his mouth around him, fully aware that they had no means of cleaning up any mess they made and that they both had to go back down to the ball after this. When Otabek came it was a sensation Yuri wasn’t quite prepared for, salty and not exactly pleasant to taste, but he was so overcome with a sense of satisfaction and pride that he’d brought Otabek over the edge that he found he couldn’t care less. He waited until he was sure Otabek was finished before swallowing with a slight grimace, and pulling off to tuck him gently in to his clothes again.

Yuri rose off the floor and stepped closer to him, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his face into his shoulder. “Was it alright…?” he asked quietly, glad of the dark so that Otabek couldn’t see how pink his cheeks were.

Otabek let out a disbelieving little laugh. “Alright? It was perfect, Yura. You have to let me return the favour, please…”

Shaking his head, Yuri smiled up at him softly and patted his hair. “You are not kneeling on a hardwood floor with your leg in a state. There is no hurry, we have all the time in the world. Now that I have you back I do not plan on letting you go again.” His mind was made up resolutely. He would fight and scream until he was blue in the face if it meant getting Yakov and Lilia to agree to the marriage he truly wanted. He would drag the family’s reputation through the mud until it didn’t matter that he was marrying someone ‘subordinate’ to them, he would do whatever it took to make sure nobody dragged them apart again.

For a while they just stood there in the alcove, holding on to each other and matching their breathing by the steady rise and fall of their chests. Yuri could feel Otabek’s heartbeat, a steady thud that was just threatening to lull him to sleep when Otabek gently shook his arm and murmured, “We have to go back now.” He looked down at him with a soft smile. “But I will find you tomorrow, and we will spend the day together.” He sighed, glancing up and looking down the corridor towards the dim light coming from the staircase. “You go first,” he murmured. “I’ll follow a while later, I should make sure my clothes are in order before I go.”

Yuri nodded, reluctantly drawing away from him with a squeeze of his hand. He turned and made to walk down the hall, only to stop halfway and sprint back to press one more firm kiss to his lips. Otabek slipped a hand in his hair and held him close, the pair of them softly holding each other until Otabek pulled away with a quiet laugh. “Go,” he whispered, eyes sparkling in the dark. “I’ll be right behind you.” 

Now for good, Yuri grinned and walked away from him, taking a minute at the top of the stairs to make sure his hair was neat and his clothes were straight and he looked completely composed. They were on the final leg of their journey now, the final obstacles that they needed to overcome to get what they wanted seemed minor when compared to everything they had dealt with already, and for the first time in a long while, Yuri walked back towards his family with a feeling of hope swelling within his chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYO. It's been a minute but not as much of a minute as some previous updates have been. It's currently 2am and I'm veryyyy tired and I just finished this chapter so forgive me if there are any glaring errors, I'll go back and fix them eventually! I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter, I know everyone has been wanting our boys reunited for a while now <3 Thank you for everyone who has stuck with this fic, there's only one more full chapter left and then a short epilogue chapter, we're in the home stretch! Please please do comment and let me know what you thought, I feel like this is quite a highly anticipated chapter since they were wrenched apart heheh. Also fun fact, this chapter is 10,600 words approx, which is 600 more words than my uni dissertation has to be that's gonna take me a whole year to write. Wild! 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think! <3


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